A poem by the late poet, Claude Martin. In 1973, at the gentle age of 23, the young poet was found dead in his small Los Angeles apartment - before any fame or recognition had floated his way. His death remains a mystery - a murder mystery. A known gambler and drinker and dancer, he had many dark acquaintances.
With a thought, the Poet rose from a bed of grime.
To the know thy future,
To know thy line
Would be the most horrid passing of time.
To know, everyday,
What a man would do,
What a woman would say,
Untying the knot of each latent play.
To know where it all would start,
And how it all would end
Would be the slowest passing,
The straightest bend.