I hope I could ask of you,
From strangers never found,
Who haven’t seen you as I did,
Who neither know your name nor it’s sound.

You are a lullaby,
A charlatan,
The evening star,
That blind sun.

You are everything, that makes this world,
Yet the world holds nothing of your kind,
Here men can part the sea with hand,
But not shift the grain of your mind.

I know of you,
The way you walk,
By shores of blue sunshine,
The way you hold,
Each oyster,
And claim every pearl as ‘Mine’.

Oh how I wish to see you, all nights anew,
When the dreams awake on your face,
And you close those eyes, like a lavaliere,
With a stillness full of grace,
For then I would have,
An eternity,
Of you and me as one,
And not this effigy, of burning time,
That ebbs at every turn.

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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