Paramour.

A soul meanders,
Blossoms, bursts.

Silent night,
Hold me still,
You, yesterday, were a pretty thing,
Under liquored light,
Dancing upon ropes, of tangled treasure,
With fairy arms, you, pretty thing,
Said nothing, just the calm closure of your eyelashes,
Like a mirror with opened wings.

Speckled stars, speckled stars,
Tiara of Love,
Tiptoe, swan like, across shinning snow,
And find, warm hands;
The shape of parting sea,
To hold you, O Silent Night,
Sipping, our bottled memory.

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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