Progeny of Poisoned Seeds

We are the progeny,
Of loose worms,
Sowing poisoned seed,
Letting monsters breed,
In the backyard green,
Where once lilac bloomed,
As asterisk heads,
And the rainbow rose from the flowerbed,
Like heavens slide,
Where kingdoms hide,
Between perse and red.

But now no more,
The song is seen,
Just an endless repine,
Drawn and thin,
As strings that keep men on their toes,
Each phrase a gasp for passing woes.

We have lost the skill of silent charm,
And fire burns that cannot keep us warm,
For the wood is hollow, as dead inside
As the source of our secret pride.
The night is dark, and long and cold,
And we with fetal soul, and bodies old,
May never see tomorrow’s sun,
If we sit afar, than hold as one,
For we are the progeny,
Of drifting times,
With versed sentences for these modern crimes,
For we are the progeny,
Of dreadful crimes,
Weighing cost of breaths, against weight of dimes.

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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