I was born on a faultless plain,
Nestled in meadows of eternal spring,
They said my roots were to know this land,
And to rise were my breathless wings.

So I dove in the black, moist palms,
To wet my yearning feet,
Years aging unto eons,
Never to ever meet.

I lost my one limb there,
In the mud of deep old lore,
Where myths came hourly alive,
But the men exist no more.

Bruised I was and battered,
In thirst my blossom fell,
Yet for seasons I said nothing,
Only waved as all was well.

Until one brutal summer day,
When that long end felt near,
A bird perched upon my person,
And drank deep from my tears.

It whispered in my hands,
“Why you weep like a broken tree,
When with wings such as yours
One will cross a mighty sea?” Hearing her I cried, And buried my oaken heart,
Shred myself to pieces,
Broke my roots apart.

My new soul; it was flesh,
My new flesh; it was pink,
My muddied wings spelled ivory,
Against that sea, seething with ink.

There were stories in the tide,
I remember what they said,
” You fly over the faces,
Of dreams cast away to dead.”

But I felt no love for my shadow,
Left behind to be lied,
My eyes were upon that sun,
Which shone on the other side.

The sea runs unending still,
Calling me to turn,
But I had tasted new sunlight,thus
I burn, I burn, I burn.

Though I was born on a faultless plain,
Nestled in meadows of eternal spring,
My roots weren’t to know my land, And I am yet to bet my wings.

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.

2 thoughts on “Wanderings”

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