On a bleak summer day,
A face all old and broken with lines,
Peeked through the window,
Eyes shinning with guilt,
As he stole from behind the curtain,
Moments of men,
So that he could carve,
In the stagnant listlessness of his home,
A myriad tale of love and loss,
To hang by the fireplace,
For all to witness and whisper about,
A myth, a saga, a tragedy,
A lie to give life,
To him who never lived
And lives no more,
But exists like a monument, his masterpiece,
Holding in it’s silence, secrets of the centuries.
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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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THE HUMAN ANVIL 