The Rain





He wavered, 

A carved hand brushing against dry, split lips,

Parched beyond measure, he blinked up at the folding sky,

Lifeless eyes awaiting a promise,

Which tiptoed eventually,

Like needles mocking glass,

Darkening the ground with it’s whisper,

So that the man could hear,

And find solace in the silence,

Of new seed breaking ground,

Old rivers running anew,

Dying breaths finding​ again,

Moments of living few.











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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