Once Again Through This Night


I hold no flavored thought,
Like warm hands around my head,
It’s the morning of yesterday,
My body lies still in bed,
I feel the folding silk, falling soft satin,
I hear the wall clock murmur, murmur in latin,
There’s quiet to the point of loud,
Then a ringing, ringing cloud,
A gentle, gentle tapping,
Of the God slowly clapping,
In an aged, acted wonder,
At all my floating blunder,
I turn to dwell as lumber,
Drift into the dead- like slumber,
Where the sky dances pure white,
Kissing new twilight.


There are footsteps upon the stair,
Rising up in a pair,
And shadows on the floor,
Ears breathing through the door,
Then my name on fingertips,
Rainfall of petaled lips,
Nectar upon my neck,
Sunshine for my sake,
So I open my eyes to morn,
Like a bowl of reasons born,
Rising to feel my feet,
Come victory, come defeat.

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 “Once Again Through This Night”

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