Dreamer’s Dream

I go searching on a deserted street
A river breathing and hissing
Like milk from melted moon
But only the shadows are awake
Drowning in silver lake
That Sfumato lagoon
Reflecting the roots of paradise
A silence more verbose
Than that of a breathing statue;
Standing one step less of the precipice
Yet hovering over the horizon
Wingless, blind to the bottom
Of an everlasting yawn that
Morpheus divined in a dream while
Walking on a deserted street
With a burning candle in high noon
In search of river breathing and hissing
Like milk from melted moon

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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