The Common Touch

I look around this swell of sea,
And find many same as me,
But I feel no pain, at our common touch,
Only pride that we don’t, differ much,
And remain aloft and alive of will,
All masters of some meagre skill,
Much unlike those precious few,
Who sell themselves to buy something new,
And yet remain same as old,
With that begging bowl, made of gold.

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. View all posts by TheHumanAnvil

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