
There
Upon the white winter brow
Of an aged world
I stand, like a cliff
A black wound, unstitched,
Filed with crowfoot and claws,
Where my face without flesh
Lingers in iodine
So that under one pain I could forget
The origin of another
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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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Beautiful and potent imagery. I can relate to this one right now.
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Thank you very much for the kind words. Glad you found it meaningful 😊
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Superbly evoked powerful piece
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Much grateful for your constant support 🙏 dear friend
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You are most welcome
Keep writing always
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