She is on the doorstep,
I upon the floor,
Her eyes are pleading to follow,
My hands motion; No more.
The horizon has come home,
And now the birds perch,
Not in a galore of bright calls, hidden under crests of deep colors,
But in dead nods of grey heads, as
Timeless pendulums, mocking
This synergy, of false prophecies.
I have tasted the nectar,
Pulsing and bright,
Like forged frost; wilted white,
And the copper shore,
Breathing against the lifeless flow,
Of envy, turned dust, turned rust,
Now turn once again,
To me, to you,
And everything true.

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.

6 thoughts on “Nevermore”

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