Ex of Carbon and of Hope

Listen out for my fizz.
Mine is the smallest voice
on the trajectory of fear.
Audible, though barely a whisper.
I exchange thoughts with words.
A means to map a sketch of light,
Given that my oratory is reproof
Of observed entanglements.
Ideas animated when spoken.
I am an easle of wit upon which
The readers carve out for themselves
The essence of my message.
The key way of the chamber cranial.
My crackable insight is passage enough.
And in equal measure decanted
For the solar scholar,
And the down drawn stalemate.
Each having been seated
On the see saw of chance.
This tent peg is self pressed
Like a stake in my heart,
An anchor, a gimbal of hope.
Death, that sharp edge to mortality,
Is but a breath away from each of us.
The sunken summit, the bleak burial pit,
Awaits our final draw.
So that eventually all that remains,
Are our remains.
A damp, damned, distillation,
Ex of Carbon and of Hope.

© 2019 Christopher Thompson
All rights reserved

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