Sad voices,
The old wheel turning,
Machines, mechanics,
My fuel, my blood,
Empty hands hiding open eyes,
Pillar of fire; rusted valve.

Debris at home, served cold,
Head upon altar, Heart upon steps,
Perhaps the wind changes,
Perhaps it dies,
Stand in the line,
Beg for the lies.

Halls of heaven,
This smoke is yours,
Drink in this elixir.
“May you live a hundred years,
In grease and grime,
Half blind till fifty,
Without a crime.”

Children, step back,
There is iron around,
That cackle of chains,
That’s how freedom sound.
No you can’t have it,
Around your neck,
They were forged for us,
For our children’s sake.

Ha ha ho ho,
Low laughter,
You know,
Write my whisper,
Someone’s watching,
Go slow.

There the tapestries, they wave, they wave,
Hanging dynasties,
Headless slave.

If my color could speak,
If my culture could count,
Never would have I needed,
Your gracious discount.

So many words,
So many thoughts,
Which one to speak,
Which one to not?

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.

4 thoughts on “Metallic”

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