Rumored Impulse

O seldom seen soul,
You wrong me with your plight,
You wound me with your fear,
I shall be thy vessel no more,
No longer shall I hold,
Your sightless scent, in my being,
And be called names I cannot defy,
And be reminded of deeds I cannot define.
You, ever elusive,
Precursor of all illusions,
Begone, to the shell; of oblivious wisdom,
Float upon the tumult of torn times,
You are not needed,
To guide me upon this journey.
O Faltering star; to hold you would be a sin,
To leave you, a miracle,
And I choose that improbable, the impossible,
Oasis of existence,
I choose the eternal,
Without quests for questions,
Without angst for answers,
Quite breathes,
Under deep oceans.

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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