I was once fashionable in a Tank Top, Or popular as a phrase, a saying. I lived on the lips of my proud mother. I came to her and then was gone. Off I sped trying to find a way, My way. I surfed on the breeze of youth, I conquered everything, Everything but myself. Having fallen victim of patternation I sought solace in vitro. I had reached twenty years of aging. Although now an ending draws ever closer, I submit once again to my feet. I am stationery, as if planted. My marching days live now In my long gone portion of time. I have blistered my last foot After chasing fortune and fame. I am now simply at a messing point. I feel like a missed point Like a sea shell on a bleaching beach. So done over by time and its rituals, Daily I commit to solitude. © 2020 Christopher Thompson.
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