How the aging world mock,
The new as weak,
Whilst the old lay fallen,
On paths the young never seek,
Is it mystery when the thespians
Feels vacant and so weep,
To know they build kingdoms
But not a brick can they keep.
That everything held dear,
Shall be lost to those eyes;
Life won in the mud,
Now lost to the skies,
It’s the way of the world,
And every hour has her time,
The copper in the end,
Was gold in it’s prime.

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.

7 thoughts on “Thespians”

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