Here the edges of world are frayed,
And the men are lot less quiet,
There is an odor at the end of day,
That lingers through the night.
Here vacant eyes are full of grief,
They see fire with cold flame,
Raging through life which says;
Dream and death are same.
Here flowers bloom in hot winter morn,
Come spring they turn to dust,
There is gold like dirt upon the roads,
And the kingdoms are made of rust.
Here marionettes sit on thrones,
By the virtue they can’t stand,
The Angels see this as misery,
But the Devil understands.
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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