
The mirror broke,
And so did the image,
In thousand, thousand pauses,
A violent birth that altered all,
The semblance and the sync,
By the valleys of crest and the peaks of trough,
Everlasting ephemerally,
To shatter the illusion,
Restive to change,
Of face and fate, fickle of desire
the ring of truth, absolved by fire,
Sand, silica and stone of lime,
Filling the void, bereft of heart,
Gathering, gathering,
In ages untold,
Layers of past and of that present,
Dust and ashes, Bricks of blood,
Raised in memory, forgotten barrow,
Tombs of today, altars tomorrow,
True to find,
In semblance, of semblance, for semblance,
A voice raised, in echo unheard,
Whispering reflections, the sentinel erred.
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Author: TheHumanAnvil
I find poetry as a gentle reminder, a medium to relay and dwell upon all things considerate people find inconsiderate. Poetry as an art is akin to a lamp or a magnifying glass. It trails volumes of meaning behind obscure, vague words. I have been writing for a time now, and intend to do so for the time to come. And hopefully, hopefully, hope that one day, someday, a person stumbling across this veil of words, find it alluring enough to shift aside the curtain and peer, into the eyes of the naked truth which sways with the wind of reason. If you have any thoughts, it would be my pleasure to know them, if you don't then it would be a pleasure to not. Be my guest. This feast of words is for you.
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