The Form


It takes but a moment, yet lingers for a lifetime,

Such is the mystery, 

Of dust and the shape of sand,

Of waves and the alchemical moon, 

Like freedom caged in verse and words,

Indifferent to change, still inimicaly altered.

Such things speaks of a nature, 

Adherening to the desire,

That pulses, and reshapes, 

Reshapes and regains,

New meanings, new understanding,

An attempt, nothing more, 

To leave a part, a living part, 

So as to be remembered,

In quest of the flaw, 

For being remembered, is being immortal.

And that is all there is, such is all there shall.

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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