The Mirror.
You walk upon the shadow,
I have shed long ago.

The Man
I glide upon answers now, on wild whispers
And tended monologues,
A shield upon my shoulder,
A cape along my back,
And toes crowned with steel tips,
For the needles upon this track.

The Mirror.
Hopeless masses rolling,
Rolling into sea,
Ships sailing to shores,
Of forgotten eternity.

The Man
White claim synergy,
Black adores the night,
And the grey shelters all intentions,
Colourless and quiet,
And so I have seen the ghouls dancing,
Chained in ethereal gowns,
Alone along the hallways
Of abandoned towns,
Eyes black as silver,
Hair white as grey,
The living they stand speechless,
Whilst the dead has their say.

The Mirror.
Do the fallen warriors of old sleep under the past?
Do the memory of blood, still stirs those broken limbs?

The Man.
The risk of running men,
Is not never running at all,
But of running so far away,
That none witness the fall.

The Reflection.
Who am I? Who am I?
Wet ink, now dry.
Who am I? Who am I?
Can the silent words cry?

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.

8 thoughts on “Wounds.”

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