O portrait black,
With blind eyes do whisper,
Laugh now, whilst the paint is wet,
For once the lines are cold,
And the hand of reason stays,
Your smile shall freeze,
As you would cease, to exist, to evolve,
For on the threshold of perfection,
The mirror reflects no more,
But resigns in destitute,
Having been deemed futile.
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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