Christian Thomas Scott

Christian Thomas Scott Poems


By nightfall did we reach,
And so begin our destination.
As though I would, at least, assume it was a stable course.
Though unsteady was the travel.

Words are but a shallow well,
With strength to delve within their source
Of power, in the heart and tongue, and long continuations.
Removing logic from the mind,

Slipping sand dunes, ice cold sundown,
Windblown waves and soft-streaked bay.
I liked when you were better off and
Loving tiptoe tempest tales,


Let us break our bread with travelers,
And feast on ashen ruin in the face of stolen graves.
To them a nighttime stroll is nothing more than simple footsteps,
A candle in the cradle of the sea.

Tilted over sky and earth, as but a passing,
Till in grace and in an instant,
You have overthrown the river, as
A hiding place and refuge, for the lost.

Some branches,
Worn with intermittent hands,
Have grown sturdy. In order that
Time might be spent

Presently, they followed bard and whim,
To evanescent tangles, spritely tales.
Bought with fortunes,
As a little time is worth the grain of deep.

The bitter chill of icy breath
Sweeps lightly over passing day
And marking willful sadness takes
The new approach of scornful daze.


The feet that pad on mossy earth
Through gilded forests, rimmed with green,
The shadows flit through sunlit air,
To dance upon the frigid streams.


When the ground is singed in summer,
By the spears of light, and those that miss
The other orbs encircling:
They are not too close behind.


Bend ourselves over the
Water, where the heat blends through
The down, and shines upon us as who
We are, and who we rippled be.

After the frost left us, and all that shines
gave birth to new light,
We held our hands together, in the orchard.
And every day the dying western sky



There but a few words in this revelry,
That can wring the heart of its joyful tears,
And the saddest song that a man can sing,
Is the song of a man with no more years.

The seven wheels were turning on the sand,
And two were tight as iron's hold on blade,
The other two were led by strict command,
And two lay rounded, softened while they're made.

Then the gentle falling,
Leaves among,
That which all day,
You have done as just another,

The moon has no less radiance than the sun,
Yet here in cloudless night is masked away,
By silken strands of silver spread upon,
The starry sky and masterful array.

Paint my words upon the canvass of sky,
So all who look to heavens may believe,
That though I knelt beneath clouds of night,
I simply held no voice to calm the seas.


The golden hue and wisps of vibrancy,
Reverberates upon the scattered trees,
And flickers of our own fragility,
Are hov'ring in the soft and sunlit beams.

Our time upon this fleeting earth shall fade,
And fading shall our lives be naught but dust,
For all our deeds and dreams shall be unmade,
And turned to fabled tales of wanderlust.

Christian Thomas Scott Biography

Every sunset is someone else's sunrise. -Erasmus)

The Best Poem Of Christian Thomas Scott


By nightfall did we reach,
And so begin our destination.
As though I would, at least, assume it was a stable course.
Though unsteady was the travel.
You caught me at a time,
And truth be told, there is no other way.

It was quite unlike most present happenings.

Yet something stirring where we will,
And if we may, lay down our heads to rest.
But we are not so fluid in the daytime.
And after several thousand years or so,
Of sitting on blank magazines and
Pamphlet rendered thoughts,
Those structures say:
Come back to earth, come back to feel again!

I do not think I will return.

But look! Those lucky forests sleep away,
Until they wake no more.
But that's a story for when we wake,
Or when we're fast and dead asleep.

And to pull it off without a hitch,
You might have difficult encounters.

Oh but sometimes I wish, and far too often I hope.
Yet they only travel hand in hand.
I wish I'd never held them in my own.

So despite my wavering,
I fell asleep in the midst of my dreams,
And when I woke, I slumbered on.
If only one could have such faith as strong as doubt.
I daresay immovable then.

But uncertainty keeps me, and I'm sure of nothing,
Yet tethered, as one might say, grounded.
Some flickering remnant, to be tasted.
Though you caught me at a time,
There is no other,
No other way.

I'm truly sorry, I truly am,
I did not know how much life was left.
I would've, I could've squeezed the droplets, could've
forced and shook the marrow from the bone.
He could've wrung them dry if he had known..
Sucking the last bit of soul to his lips.

Buck up, they said.
At least you have tomorrow.
At least you have today.

I do not think I will return.

Christian Thomas Scott Comments

Christian Thomas Scott Quotes

Soot drawn Faces Barter Ageless Time is Not a Wealth of Stone.

And frozen are the flames within the green

For what is love but chasing after wind, And living on the brink of living's end?

There is nothing so fatal to success than the belief one is already there.

The most pitiful man, I think, is the one who does not.

The subtle difference between solitude and loneliness spans the gulf of worlds.

If they say you've lost your mind, you're most likely on the right track.

Brevity makes such selection of necessity.

Silence is a rare thing. In fact, it is almost never quiet enough to discover it isn't there.

Communication is such a complex mechanism, for only by an increase in accuracy do the words reveal heightened inadequacy.

If you stand on a foundation you have hastily constructed, some busy person will knock it flat, quite accidently, as they navigate through their way with infinite certainty.

Poetry is a self-centered application to our experiences, yet inevitably so. We have not the capability to stand in another's place without still looking through the lenses of our own interpretation.

Perhaps if ideas were tangible, we could experience the brilliance of perfect coherence and the subtle art of correlation.

Trivial concerns tend to be what we die for. Rarely is there a cause so noble as to excite anything but boredom.

Perhaps if the entirety of mankind was forced to become self-centered, the world would become a much more suitable living space.

The tendency of the finite mind, as it tinkers with the immaterial, is to merely subjugate reality to its own terms and understandings.

Do not be so foolish as to stand in self-wrought confidence. You did not have to be created.

Orient your mind upon that which is firm and true. Everything else will follow.

There is much comfort in the company of one who likewise desires solitude.

There is something insurmountable in the process of crafting an eternity of emotion by means of the feeblest implementations of understanding: language.

Every moment blossoms once; catch it swiftly while it grows.

Without a doubt, I've won great fortunes, bartered with each breath of life, and sailed on ribbons bought with pain. Yet as I've learned of glories wrought, they all shall fade away.

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