The Ancestor

You are to me,
A stolen relic,
Old poster; of faded features.
I remember when you were,
New and nubile,
Tempera under glass,
Spruce lime upon blue lily,
Colors darkening in light, lightening in dark,
Purposeful magic;
Your art.Until, I held you under the rain,
One day.
Thunderstorm, cotton sun,
All live things, shades of dead grey,
Black grass, burnt smell,
Shapes floating away as thoughts,
Sharp lines; blur,
Those melting faces, a dance of emotion,
All under the rain.Clouds above, clouds below,
As slanting shadows, as aged snow,
This time, that time; your
Genius of holding,
A dim moment; potted plant,
Is now, and forever, sown,
In me, in them,
A rainforest of a single kind,
Your kind.In us, you; faulted pioneer,
Shall find,
The fruits of your labor.

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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