The Deserters

A thousand branches burning,
Across this desert, parched and slow,
Like an old autumn asleep,
Upon levanter’s brow,
I walk this breaking desert,
Sand frozen back in time,
My every breath is an answer,
To a query, long buried,
Here under these dunes,
These shadow mountains tall,
Waves of dust, awaiting,
The eternal rise and fall.

The sun,
It hums and hide,
I feel it’s laughter in my throat
“There be an ocean around you”, He says, “But not a drifting boat”
I walk, I wait,
I am dead perhaps,
I wait, I walk,
Undying,
And rest upon ruined monuments,
Who afore me did die trying,
The tears I shed are silent,
All prayers I quote are sigh,
There are thousand people calling,
And every voice is a lie.

Oh there is,
And there too,
Shinning water in the deep,
Where the said souls gather,
Each night to quietly weep.

I felt a hand on my heart,
Of a spectre that slowly said,
“Have a sip of our nectar,
And tread farther the way ahead,
So that when you fall,
When you can no longer strive,
You too like us can await,
And aid another to pass alive.”

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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