Christopher Fladd

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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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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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Once a bird was claimed in wild fire
Unaware that its heat,
Would, eventually,
Have him, raised substantially
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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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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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Searching low but looking high
for the like color of his eye
was it true the lost could find
one another two combine
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What, within the why which we are,
leads us to ponder under the stars?
Where we were then is gone now by far,
by ten thousand miles, a billion new stars
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Where is the future,
down some glistening star-scape hallway awake with time?

What was the future,
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Without feeling the two parted,
to find only the bitter cold beside them.
Too soon would seem Eros did not mean
for them,
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Of the painful mountain she totes;
Which honest words, to me, emote.
Carry on for faithful sunrises,
And live a Mer-queens life.
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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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The carnal dreams of daffodils,
Lacking tangible grasps,
Cast pollen off over the hills,
To make the loving synapse.
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If short hard life steals hope or gives fright,
Here, this is how words can save, if believed,
Life; self, soul, listen in and allow them reprieve.
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What is she, to me, we wonder
Not much more, than lore, or blunder?

No for see, like sea, she is wonder
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