Life In Ripples

You poise by the preface,
Starlike; extravagant,
Tilting waist,
Measuring love of men,
Who dipped in your fragrance,
Sway like honey heavy flowers,
Drunk against sunlight,
Leaping emerald across boroughs,
Spilled with spring.

Lilac dreams, enchanting,
You wave away tapered, transient,
All lifelike features, that taste of earthly leisure,
Absent.
For you dream of Angels,
Angular symposium of embroidered life,
And divine imitation,
Though you know it not.
For far too pleasure shatter beneath your feet,
And the sound, what feels like cloudburst to us,
To you is but a gust of wind that lifts,
The violet hem of your dress.

Yet one day,
Your face shall melt,
Into a weed filled pool,
With a weeping fountain in the middle,
For all too pass by and forget,
Even when the blue rain, would clasp,
And hold you, immortal,
No nymph nor Naiad,
Or man, mermaid,
Shall know your depths, ever.

But every other night,
When solace would have left you speechless,
And the silence; a silver mirror,
A shadow shall shape in your womb,
Desirous, delicate,
Cascading down, sweet and sour,
Like a citrus kiss of longing,
And you will be alone, no longer,
But one with the moon,
Dancing on his tunes,
In trance like ripples.

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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