Almanella

I laid myself bare,
And they took notice,
Of all the wounds stitched,
Like embroidery upon my skin;
A flower around my navel,
Persian pattern on my back,
A stag hiding in dry grass,
With a hunter on its track.

Pour forth, ye night,
From my flute, my tulip, my coupe,
Till your calves kiss it’s brim,
And you step over the rim,
Dyed naive, carved naked,
Upon these paths, these cobblestones,
Burning silver bright,
For a copper coin falling,
Away, and out of sight.

This night, they toast to melancholy.
I raise my glass, with many others of the evanescent gathering,
(Faces one and all, surrounded, shrouded,
In a mist of obscure words;
Prophecies, promises, plans for progenies.)
And let it fall, alone,
Elegantly, without spilling,
Onto the floor, the cold dead floor.

The nectar in their veins,
The ichor of their existence, the slow tumbleweed of a dry and dying day,
Is poison to me.

I wake up,
Unmade.
Once again afraid.

The sheets are wet, greying at the edges,
Smelling of soap and lye,
And the old musk of a nearby barn,
And morning drenched with rain.
So many possibilities,
Dividing my desire.

There is not much to do, anymore,
A wasteland stretches upon my fingertips,
Like old oil,
Staining each touch, the mere memory of meeting
Silhouettes standing against the far wall, with dark cloud moaning, tracing upturned lips,
Dressed in ashes, hands upon hips.

I no longer believe anything I see.

Pages turn into paper planes,
Numbers in nonsense,
Geometrical theology;
Thesis upon dot,
Histories of fools who fought,
For a piece of stone, that belonged to a third.

So much has the human mind endured,
And we wonder why the world acts lost.

‘Your hands are too small to smother me,
Love.’

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.

7 thoughts on “Almanella”

  1. “This night, they toast to melancholy.
    I raise my glass, with many others of the evanescent gathering,
    (Faces one and all, surrounded, shrouded,
    In a mist of obscure words;
    Prophecies, promises, plans for progenies.)
    And let it fall, alone,
    Elegantly, without spilling,
    Onto the floor, the cold dead floor.”

    Goddamn, aren’t you the best, and the wisest, here? Your writing makes everything else I read on WP look like doggerels.
    I’d love to read your collection of poems in a book!

    Liked by 1 person

    1. 😀 You are far too kind my friend. Thank you for all the encouragement, truly indebted. And I would like to take this opportunity to say that your writing is one of the very best I have read, anywhere, ever.
      Thank you once again, you made my day…

      Liked by 1 person

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