Cocoon

My old hands were like butterfly
Once beautiful and delicate
A million grains of imprisoned skies as
One thousand thoughts; intricate,
But what now they remember
Is only the crushing weight,
Of cold steel left to rust
And rough edges of granite slate
Till one day they tremble
Like withered wings to feel no pain
And fall asleep sans memory
In a cocoon, to be a moth again

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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