It Happened Long Ago.

Once upon a time,

The jewelled sky was bare,

Like a blank canvas painted white,

And men felt hollow,

Staring at it long.

The poets could neither mourn,

Nor compose a simple song,

For the lovers sat cold of desire,

With no moon to set afire,

Their paths through thorns of pain,

And their lives with loss and gain.

The philosophers slept through night,

With nothing out and in sight,

And scribbled dry till days,

Wordy chains of worldly ways.

The sea too was at loss,

Yearning to turn and toss,

And speak of deeper things,

With the sand which silence sings.

Then thus one day it began,

And the stars started to rain,

From a sky farther above,

Without a why and how.

Some fell like wisps of dream,

Some whistling and some with scream,

Others halted with a tiny wink,

And glared without a blink.

Lastly the moon arrived,

He misjudged the depth and dived,

To finish as first in race,

But falling flat on his face.

And that is why dear friends,

The Moon hides to unearthly ends,

Lapsing shade by shade,

Nursing his cloud filled head.

For he forgets but remembers too,

That everyone gets their due,

That the dark is devoid of light,

That their is no scene without a sight.

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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