Mind

Many of my thoughts,

Thoughts such as these,

Are laid before me,

Are spread out,

Like grasses that are fresh

And green to the touch.

As though strewn

And are not unlike

Confetti in celebration.

Written across somewhere

Not unlike Graffiti.

Not to sound too silly,

They are markers in time.

Woods in winter,

Lived yet uncared for.

Each of us

Who live in this presence

Are as guilty as horses.

We live in the moment.

Relishing as we slowly move along in procession.

The difference between us?

Only the whereabouts of our fields.

We are steeped in quality.

Nobles by choice.

We drink from the chalices of life

Where ever we find them.

©️2019 Chris Thompson

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