Novus Actus Interveniens Poem by Christopher Woodall

Novus Actus Interveniens


My time; I naively believe
These thoughts to be my own,
Mine as my children are
Perfect reproductions of me,
Perfect little graspers.

My time, soft furnishings to sit
Upon, resting my big
Muscle, philosophising with
The electricity
Produced by digesting dinner.

My time, for erotic
Watching of the news and gory
Crime reproduction shows,
Listening for the sermon of
Some sweaty policeman.

My time, to speed erase myself
Like a dictated tape
Of todays defunct verbiage,
Drip like wasted saline
Into the healthy flesh of night.

This chair becomes a cell
Not padded enough to stop the
fresh damage I will do,
Cutting new flowers, displaying
Some imagined purpose,
Knowing they are perennials.

My time was always thrown
Over my left shoulder for luck
And my seed was as salt
On the fertile soil for all the
Evil flowers it grew.

My time drained away with all the
Wine and sunsets and books
When one of each would be enough,
Walked away with harsh words
Showing off a proud peerless neck.

My time became one day
Our time, and then our time became
Their time; my time became
Photographs and occasional visits
From other veterans.

My time is chrysalis hollow,
Nest empty, skeleton
Brittle, but it is lovingly
Lingered on by childrens
Fingers in a drawer.