Where is the future,
down some glistening star-scape hallway awake with time?
What was the future,
before the past corrected this old-new direction of mine?
Who holds the future,
anyone at all, or the whole amalgamation of beings finite combined?
How does the future
escape me even now whilst intertwined in my rhyme?
Why is the future?
Where we were just before looking back at ethereal, sublime
“What have you? ”'s of yourself
Who keep us backtracked like pack rats just trying to design
How well kept up with stuff we are that it's all junk in time?
It's all in vain
for we remain
by reason or logic
compassion or nonsense
my keyboard's dusty and ragged out
it's black with white lines
and without power in the darkness
has no image, That's mine,
and in the end it
all blends in
to the din
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Comments about this poem (Future by Christopher Fladd )
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