A Passage on Poetry

These words are like eye focus
Or I focus with a little bit of truth.

On being,
I settle a while,
I sense a widow
A woman of hope has opened
The last gate of life.
She praises and genuflects,
On bended knee.
She feels she is facing the right direction,
So is safe.
She is surely saved.

I watch from a safer distance.
Too livid to be counted among the fallen,
I have forgotten my past, thus,
I count myself as innocent.
How can this be?
I alone am unable to do this.
This widow has hope,
For us all and herself.
I delude my own hope,
Further out of reach.

I have been mixing goodness,
With these acts of Self Will.
My circle of truth still loses its worth,
It’s diminished
More so with the pain.
And accompanied,
With the pasage of time,
I retreat
And accomplish damnation.

©2014-2019 Christopher Thompson All rights reserved