The needle was cold
Like ice
Drawn on paper
And my skin
Poured forth, at it’s touch;
Soft as vapour .

My, my, rainbow blue
Where are thou
In this sky:
Past Siberian prairies
Or neath valleys
Spilling high?

These dreams aren’t mine
Aren’t mine are these walls
I was taught to build them
To learn how to fall
And I still can so hear
Those bricks seeping salt
‘ We keep a part of you
As souvenir for each fault’

Dandelion, Daffodil
Kaleidoscopic in wind still.

Their is a saint at my door
His hands are all tied
He has one eye upon his forehead
To weep for the world wide
And he asks for the key
To be free
From the Pain
So I whisper to him the causes
Of the criminally insane.

The world, the world
Wither not by my words
It’s the pleasure in my veins
That so flutters as a bird
And breathes, full of life,
Even with autumn in my arm
Hold fire to my lips,
And let the numb still feel warm.

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.

3 thoughts on “Wisp”

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