Here we stand;
The golden gods
In a toolbox,
Each with a vision
Of a lesser folly
And a desire to draw diamonds
From ashes
An alchemy not of elixir
But venin from a common vein, of
Old blood waxed in bottles
For the good of tallow men
Because this too is an age of pharaohs
A passage in stories untold
Where the poor die to enshrine the rich
In pyramids of pallid gold
And yet the flesh, it shall turn to dust
And red bones be bleached white,
And these hollow tombs of chronic weight
Will tommorow have no might
For the mortal men, come immortal days
Do fade into the past
Till the first that came along this way
Resemble the very last.

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.

8 thoughts on “Hubris”

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