The Soul of Francis
Thompson
It is not hard to find the soul of a man. Live his life but
once and you have it cold. That dark and mysterious place we call the mind is
but the affluence of those allowed to think at the present time. We never know
until called home just how many lives were effected. And yet coming home is the
first thing on our minds.
Take Francis Thompson for a model if you will. Bereft of all
meaning and yet his life had one purpose; to save you. And yet I think that
serving him would have been the better part of valor. Else wise you and I are
both damned if his life had no import. Why- because he was better than us, in
everything besides sports and/or, lesser games of chance.
Thompson had a particular purpose in life such as you and I
do not. He was alive for just one reason and that reason was reason enough. If
you know nothing of his life than this alone will suffice to say of him. He was
a poet first and foremost and an addict secondarily. All the same family of
disease, but none so great that he never shrunk from either call of duty.
He wrote and was loved- he fell, and was hated for the
failure, same as I; same as you. When down we recognize true friendships
neither based on gain or loss and yet the funny thing is about loss, it truly
can become a gain, that is should you wish it to be. They say that which does
not kill you only makes you stronger. I suffer through that vapid sphere and
state the fact that whatever tried to kill you is even better off dead than you
are.
What I long to feel is sunshine on my shoulder, breathe in
my share of air and share that which is of the utmost of importance in this
world; honesty. For honesty breeds integrity and integrity breeds the best of
us. Thompson was a breed alone and he died as such. Thompson was set apart for
a particular mission that few of us could endure. Francis Thompson- is a saint.
Whatever we long to feel and whatever our hatred in the
heart will never amount to the love that he felt for the Word and shall
certainly never encapsulate now that he is gone. But for us that remain to read
his work there shall never be or ever was, a more fitting mind than Thompson
among us. The God of mercy read his work and of this I am sure, He found himself
laughing at every turn, of the good book upside down.
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