What would I give to be a stranger

To myself

And dip a finger in the gentle nectar

Of my whirlwind mind;

Smooth as a drunk pebble, 

Without edges, without angles,

Skipping across the fallen horizon, 

Like a star amidst cinder,

Soaking smoke and traces, of kingdoms and caverns, alike.

I wonder how my mind would taste,

With all those dreams, sweet as apricot,

With all those desires, burning, 

Bitter regrets lining the base of this vessel,

Sour memories rising as steam.

Mayhaps, It would feel like water,

Like a single sip of wine,

Or tears wrought as ice,

As ashes gone cold through the night.

What would I give to be a stranger?


The way I see the world, 

And hear it’s autumn chattering,

And smell the skin of ages,

And feel the broken fabric,

Like black upon white pages.

What would I give to be a stranger?

I wonder. I so wonder.

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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