The angels never built picnic spots
What they forged were summits
Silver spears; insurmountable, so as to awe
Us, we with our half gnawed bones
Kept in the coldest corner of the cave
Perhaps that is why
We paint them, falling from the sky
Divine yet alone
Afraid to sin, on their own,
Stagnant in deeds and in thoughts
All because the angels never built picnic spots.
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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.
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THE HUMAN ANVIL 