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Chris Thomas Jan 7
"Don't fret," he says,
As feet singe along the highway
As callouses form
And perdition looms ever closer

"We do not count missteps here," he says,
As our eyelids flutter
As colors bleed
And the horizon becomes our last best hope

"Perchance one day I tame this gravity," he says,
"I may yet label these perils as the cruces of my life,"
As mirages dance
And tomorrow's spies step out of shadow

"Ensure, my child, you settle your debts," he says,
As the fog dissipates
As pockets jingle
And the road eschews its weary travelers
Chris Thomas Jan 6

So I furl my brow, again
And curtly interrupt the beating within my chest
I thrash right through these fragile memories
That serve as hostesses to unwelcome guests

I remain anchored
And tethered to the obsolete

She sails across my empty sea
On currents capable of avarice and beyond
I fester within spirits of my own design
That in my youth, were once brilliantly spawned

With blissful candor
I weather her bitter deceit
Chris Thomas Dec 2021

an intricate mélange behind walnut eyes
you somehow smirk with no movement of lips
sanguine, as a diamond kaleidoscope
dreams wavering along calloused fingertips

it is much like you to tear asunder
all the fractions that compose the man you see
sanguine, as the day you were born
threading your way beyond the mystery

barefoot, your steps still echo within
this cavernous place I once claimed as mine
sanguine, as the island I have become
you are my disarray, by bittersweet design
Chris Thomas Dec 2021
The man sits stationary in his favorite chair
While children are adrift in their dainty dreams
Fire spits, crackles, and warms the room
One that is far colder than it seems
Much like shimmering snowflakes fluttering down
Memories fall from his clouded mind
Santa should be half past San Francisco by now
Leaving crumbs and subtle grace behind
The man calls himself an imperfectionist
Because flaws are the greatest gift of all
But soon, carols will fade back into their music box
Only regret will deck these halls
Under a Christmas tree as green as his envy
Presents sit wrapped as tightly as his lips
Reindeer could be sailing across winter skies
But he's obscured by his mind's eclipse
There's no more bliss in the land of wonder
There's no more repeating of sounding joy
The man fades into uneasy Christmas slumber
So ends yet another year, as a misfit toy
Chris Thomas Dec 2021
The power of pain remains ungoverned
While the currency of faith slowly bleeds out
Children, transfixed and mesmerized
Watch cannons cauterize our wounds

Mother moon, cresting over hill and lake
Reflections can no longer resist the weight
Arms, vanquished and immobilized
As dawn breaks our last awakening

By splendor's dying light
Treason has spoiled our meager hearts
Eyes, squinted and crestfallen
We are but a fraction of this mutinous crew

For our deaths may be inevitable
And our honor may be unenviable
Betrayal, blinks and relapses
While sword and shield seed the earth
Chris Thomas Dec 2021
"A patient man bides his time,"
Theodore tells the man in the mirror
Tomorrow, all the levees will break
And all the fables will be told
Of distant Decembers and forgotten fathers

Livelihoods will be threatened
And remorse will fall by the wayside
He watches as icicles on the awning
Melt away into puddles on the ground
"Warmer every day," he thinks to himself

He hangs up his scarf and overcoat
The way a simple man, with complex demons, was wont to do
And as his wants devolve into needs
And as all his anchors deteriorate to rust
Her smile unnerves a once-settled man

To think of the quality of glove necessary
To hold onto the wagon in this day and age
So Theodore pulls the door to,
Leaving Chopin's "Horseman" to gallop in peace and pieces

He watches her from across the courtyard
"Such sweet bliss in her footsteps," he sighs
And it seems to him as if the snow dissipates
Just from the warmth in her steady gait
Just from the radiation behind her blue eyes

He slides open the dresser drawer
A haven for scattered trinkets, odds, and ends
A place of respite for the weary souvenir
There, amidst all the corroded memories
Lies a corroded pistol, unspoken and unburnished

"And a lonely man drinks his wine,"
Theodore says, as intrepidly as he is capable
For there is a time when fathers stop teaching
A time when mothers stop singing
And a place where the sins stop searching

A last breath is deeply inhaled
But never again will find its escape
With a thud that echoes to Seymour Street
Theodore crumples to the cold wooden floor,
A simple man, finally free of complex demons
This is a poem about hopelessness, unrequited love, and the sense of loneliness that accompanies every loss.
Chris Thomas Dec 2021
Amounting to more
Than my heart can hold
Stained silver cuts deep
With its poison-steeped blade
And the pen in my hand
Remains bitter cold to the touch

I write my pleas
With ice-coated words
Words that melt swiftly
As they dance upon coals
The embers of a fiery
And deceitful tongue

As I tiptoe along
The edge of the Earth and back
I notice there is scarcely
A whisper in the wind
Imprecise eyes
See only brackish blinks now

Fallen memories
Have piled outside my door
Yet my footprints
Are still sprinkled across the field
And I retreat,
Back to a haven of simple thoughts

I am hallucinating
As I watch pieces of myself chip away
As though I am a sculpture
For winter's amusement
Merely a plaything
Of this everlasting frost
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