Fault of being Earnest

Hopefully the heart,
Will hurt me more than you.
I tried too hard, you see,
And yet so very few.

What flowers shall in wilderness grow
I suppose,
Now that the wind which once claimed it, is free.

I am reminded of a verse,
In this pensive page of mine;
‘The Love that you lost,
Was never yours to be found,
Tis was a drifter, and you a wanderer,
Happening to be around’

How cold the claim of night,
I feel this weary day,
Why words gather in mute comfort,
When I have nothing of solace to say,
But to lay and to think,
Of those moments repeating far,
Alive forever,
Beyond this shape of scar.

Hopefully the heart,
Will hurt me more than you,
I tried too hard, you see,
And yet so very few.

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. View all posts by TheHumanAnvil

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