Aging Anew.

This reality feels like sawdust,
Of a home I shaped,
In my dreams.

The mild fragrance of old flowers,
Cruising over my sentience,
Since long, long, long,
Lay today,
Thin like lacquer,
Shinning with cynical dirt, and
Acoustic accusations of a
Remembered silence, passed down the ages;
Colorless quotient,
Of divided demands.

Faces that once,
Helped me sleep,
Why do they now, keep me awake?
How the stories that kept me warm,
Now leave me cold,
On this new day?

Far too far,
This road has leapt,
Away from the walls I memorized well,
And now no window hails my call,
The city has sailed,
Is all they say.

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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