They walk alive
In rigor mortis
Of routine;
The selfsame adventures
Over and over
Till memories are maimed
Coagulated
In an endless reel
Of a single frame
Until that very end
When all goes black
And it begins again
Without palpable pause
Amidst absent applause
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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 
Amazing
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Thank you friend. Your constant appreciation is a blessing. Thank you 😊🙏
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That is because you pen stirring ideas. Wish you all the best.
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Thank you from the bottom of my heart 👍
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Wonderful!
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Thank you 😊 Glad you liked it 🙏🙏
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You’re very welcome indeed
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Wow! I love “the rigor mortis of routine”!
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Thank you 😊 Glad you liked it
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It perfectly describes so many of my working days. 😦
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Yeah😅… So do mine… The curse of modern times
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Thank you for the acknowledgement. Glad to know you liked it so much 😊🙏
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