Poem for fate

This is not a clenched fist
On the end of my clunky wrist.
The grip is here
Tight on this pencil,
On the wit
On the page.
There is also a grasp,
Where there is a wider understanding.
The Universe will wend it way
Regardless of the risky philosophy
Found herein.
There is no unattended intention
Other than an attempt at trans-fiction.
Whether this becomes a description
Of hope or a wound
These words will remain worldly.
They are of the here and now.
And I signal my thoughts
With transcendental grace,
By an unheard of gift.
I am in grief
At the repeating pattern of life.
As I change my witness
On a whim or the wind,
It feels
Like I change my mind.
This algorithm is a challenge to faith,
This poem
An affirmation.
This is how I write,
Though not even I
Can tell why.

©2019 Christopher Thompson
All rights reserved.

These assertions are not by way of anger.  
The grip is on the tool of the scribe. 
It is not a fist of fury. 
Neither is the fist of an angry young person.
It is a grip on thought and the media of transmission. 
It is about understanding a message. 
A message which regardless any 
such worth or merit will have no impact 
of the doings of time and space.
It is an attempt at a description of truths, 
indeed all poetry is.

Chris T.
Buckland Brewer, Devon. England 30/10/19

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