Christopher Withers Poems
vision stunted by past deeds
leading to my current place,
childhood face: disconnected,
now adrift on stagnant lake.
cynicism scrawls the map
leading to my resting place,
a symptom of a drying mind,
what once was fluid, now is blind.
each denial of childhood dream
fractures now my world it seems.
mothers tears dried in her grave,
childhood view: never saved.
Thoughts Of An Atheist
individuality, seemingly unique
yet, built upon the same mechanics,
built upon the same brain structure,
in each and everyone of us.
its engine, self awareness, conscious window
to a perceived external world - holds claim
to being one of a kind, but in truth
it is simply the same medium, given seeming
difference through the accumulation of