Along The Road

There are lights on either side,
Unblinking, thinking,
Of the dark road, falling down, down,
Like a waterfall;
This flowerbed of men, women and those with,
Cluttered, raised voices, of tottering innocence.

There are dustbins,
Homeless, hungry,
Staring at each passer-by,
Immigrant, some Samaritan, a bad shooter of banana peal,
Open to you, welcome, for a purpose,
With armless hugs, always unattended,
Nevertheless, forever

There are footpaths,
The grandfather of generations,
Keeper of footsteps,
Precursor to paths,
Witness to life, its softness, its wrath,
Men; their plight,
Women; their might,
Masses in revolt,
People lost; hopeless in love, heartless in fight,
Half dead beggars and models on diet, Shadows in smoke, figures in dust, Old faces; all strangers at first,
Everything that passes, everything that stops,
Those gutteral depths,
Those glittering tops.

Not all eyes are seen, not all sights are sought, And not all things remain, for which one has fought,. This life is but a passing, All tides upon the sea, The world witness, as one, Have freedom to feel free.

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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