The Color of Dawn

Quiet down sunshine,
Let the petals of world, unfold,
Before you kiss its color,
And soothe the bruises left by empty men,
Who in crippled hands could not hold,
The fragrance of fantasy.

Your tendrils,
Awaking, tender blossom trees,
Weeps a pink shadow,
Upon mute eyes, aching,
Upon fingertips, shaking,
Upon old souls, breaking,
Through the colorless quite.

Quiet down, sunshine,
Under walls that hold,
Silence as a shield,
And secret as a show.
Let the stirring limbs, take a turn,
To a deeper sleep of sanity,
And those eyes half awake into another world,
Find your light, upon the fallen twigs,
A miracle to behold, and bring back,
Into this realm of togetherness.

How certain would the world be,
I ask of your face, O sunshine,
Fleeting through the emerald chaos,
Of meadows cold upon your tongue,
If you lit them alight,
In colors of their own choice?

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.

2 thoughts on “The Color of Dawn”

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