There was time of music
by Christopher Fladd
And time of word.
There was time of silence
I know, I heard
But for the confession I’ve deserved?
I’m humbling in reticence,
Attempting to diminish thirst,
I’m starting to be penitent,
To escape death, forget birth.
Seeing now the others, so concise,
Awakened that I don’t yet deserve
To feel like I’m writing
from the top of the world.
For hope is, as recently learned
Not of dreams, but of earth,
As peace is not a place but trace
Hidden in the words.
Every original ideal eludes acceptance
unless it’s real. What I write
I write to heal, and every once in a while
I write for the suture of a smile.
For that I thank my friends
But they should know there’s no great plan
being conjured here. It’s all for show
the arbitrary things I claim, I’m told
I’m no great artist just another lost soul
For now that’s as real and as deep I’ll go.