Christopher Fladd

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While standing waiting watching water,
Islands wait for bold explorers.
Worlds away they sit in slumber,
To kiss and kill the wicked daggers
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Beatniks waltz down Main
Fox trots at their shadows feats
As ‘Dog’ barks ‘Howl’ as a Lions Mane
Fox tangos down the street to beats
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Once a bird was claimed in wild fire
Unaware that its heat,
Would, eventually,
Have him, raised substantially
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There was time of music
And time of word.
There was time of silence
I know, I heard
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Smell the roses,
pet the cat,
sit down,
lay back,
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Deep Violet Velvet
A pillow for the tub.
True loves hands upon you
as they gently begin to rub.
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Poetry, Music, Dance and Rants
These are the scrapbooks of my life
For no sight, no image, recalls, in my mind
The thought, the feelings, the spirit of the time,
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Endless
Our
The lost souls
Walking
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Gazing upon the mourning song
of the rising dawn from above.

Made witness to clouds which long,
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We, Languishing facile fauna.
Colloquial despots who expedite slaughter,
Circumspect self, for the compelling Harbinger.
Men, as one, are the singular Rigor:
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Salt, tasted in tears,
which may very well
cause the brain to swell.
Whilst on the tongue wears
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Blue satin Sundays
Draped on constant houses
Of those whom sleep endless
Forever’s an earthy afternoon
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Grass will grow and flourish, feeding
All of those who pass by, thinking
On nowhere through nothing, breathing
Life with no real name.
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Where is the adjutant martyr
if the divine incarnate acts for self?
Cloaked in blackened stagnant water,
lurking leech on bottommost shelf.
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As is known with most great mysteries
there are hard parts to conceive.
Like with creatures from the deep sea
we run because we can't believe.
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If we live for nothing,
than one thing suits me fine,
if I live for any one thing
than let that something be divine.
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Death is always history,
but when it's yours it's future,
and pray it not be now.
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That of which we are within,
that which makes the heart and skin;
pouring out our souls and thought,
trickling the lingering known begot;
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