Altered

The love that a young man grow,
The old can’t see,
The rest don’t know,
And so it lays,
Willful and vague,
Maimed to fall,
Mirrored to beg,
With the rest of them,
Who failed at heart,
And are trapped in pieces,
Miles apart,
In the land of chains, where dreams are naive,
And freedom’s a privilege; for being a slave.

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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