Silent Reflections

I have woken before,
Awakened alive,
In a glass case curiously cut, into a shape,
I know was not of design.

There were corners,
Where walls didn’t meet,
And doors there, below my feet,
With windows so high,
That one couldn’t greet, any face, peering inside.

Should I venture a hello,
Or perhaps the howl of a ghost?
Was I buried alive or excavated almost?

Here voices fall without vowels,
Hollow shells; Wordlessly verbatim,
Sand dunes moaning with centuries of silence.

Why whisper when none can hear?
Why shout when one can’t answer?

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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