This story tells of a hypocrite,
Not much to lose, too much to fight,
For ways never given away
Free, for us to be at ease,
And burn the flags upon these ships
That hoards, and onboard sets us free,
Free to eat the salt, free to drink the sea,
To meet our homeless families
In far kingdoms we will never see
Anchored away to bones of past
On this journey we would never last
And the shores, in the end would find
Us as mannequins without a mind
And the tears shall speak it’s fall:
We had found something but lost it all;
For the price of priceless memory
We sold our will to slavery
For the price of priceless memory
We sold our will to slavery…

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.

2 thoughts on “Selfhood”

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