The Rehearsal

For many a filthy centuries I sobbed beneath the moon, 

For many a happy festivals I saddled away in gloom, 

For longing days of endeavour I traveled in my yard, 

For countless nights of feinging flights I fell, and fell down hard.

The freedom of my Martyrdom, thus can be ever sung, 

When the swinging of those dead resounds the chapter hung, 

And the drizzle of Golden virtue drops upon thy land, 

While cursed faith of red blood stains my crystal sand. 

In the past of reinging dark I fumble on my way, 

In the realm of harping larks I mumble what I must say,

By the mud of cleansing sages I must wither down my curse, 

As the final act of men I did and did rehearse. 

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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