The Recurring Ballad of Love

He moved to stand in line,

With a leaking pitcher of wine,

Eyeing the moonlit faces,

And the wind blown raven tresses,

Humming a broken song,

Dancing all along,

Bare of rhyme and reason,

To draw the lips of season,

A gift of flowered petal,

With a pinch of salt and metal,

And break the sun tipped veil,

The nectar of daffodil,

On the tip of gasping ocean,

All an echo of one motion,

Till the time such thunder still,

And glistening bruises heal,

To bind the aches again,

With arrows of guilty rain,

And feed the fallen dew,

An act that ends anew.

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.

5 thoughts on “The Recurring Ballad of Love”

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