The Man Without Love

A man without love is a man lost,
Picture one, if ye can,
A day when all preach,
Of a day yet to come; when a day farther away,
Shall be blind to the sun.

Thence, the abiding and the unsigned,
Dispersed or aligned, shall matter no more,
For a man without love is a man lost,
And he cares not of the form,
Shaping in the darkness,
His eyes are inward, towards the time behind,
At the scattered filaments of pleasure,
Of moments unattained,
Of strangers who remained strangers,
Left searching alone through artless existence.

Thus a man without love is a man lost,
He as soon forgets the present,
As he remembers the past,
And try to trade one for the other,
Till none really lasts,
Being beggared thus must he wander,
Searching through artless existence, alone.

So, picture one, if ye can,
A day when all preach,
Of a day yet to come; when a day farther away,
Shall be blind to the sun.

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.

4 thoughts on “The Man Without Love”

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