Novus Actus Interveniens <br /> <br /> <br />My time; I naively believe <br />These thoughts to be my own, <br />Mine as my children are <br />Perfect reproductions of me, <br />Perfect little graspers. <br /> <br />My time, soft furnishings to sit <br />Upon, resting my big <br />Muscle, philosophising with <br />The electricity <br />Produced by digesting dinner. <br /> <br />My time, for erotic <br />Watching of the news and gory <br />Crime reproduction shows, <br />Listening for the sermon of <br />Some sweaty policeman. <br /> <br />My time, to speed erase myself <br />Like a dictated tape <br />Of todays defunct verbiage, <br />Drip like wasted saline <br />Into the healthy flesh of night. <br /> <br />This chair becomes a cell <br />Not padded enough to stop the <br />fresh damage I will do, <br />Cutting new flowers, displaying <br />Some imagined purpose, <br />Knowing they are perennials. <br /> <br />My time was always thrown <br />Over my left shoulder for luck <br />And my seed was as salt <br />On the fertile soil for all the <br />Evil flowers it grew. <br /> <br />My time drained away with all the <br />Wine and sunsets and books <br />When one of each would be enough, <br />Walked away with harsh words <br />Showing off a proud peerless neck. <br /> <br />My time became one day <br />Our time, and then our time became <br />Their time; my time became <br />Photographs and occasional visits <br />From other veterans. <br /> <br />My time is chrysalis hollow, <br />Nest empty, skeleton <br />Brittle, but it is lovingly <br />Lingered on by childrens <br />Fingers in a drawer.<br /><br />Christopher Woodall<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/novus-actus-interveniens/
