The Remains of a Choice

Walk with me
Here is the world
You forgot to see
Full of love and it’s lessons
Of rough hands
Six inches heel
And blind poets in the dimly lit room
Full of artless art
Like you and me
All odes to an uncertain philosophy
In a collage of open legs
With vulgar words worded vague

I belong to the footpaths
And the palpable pain pouring out
The tinted windows;
Diluted desires and frail voices
Smelling of gas
And cigarette burns
That old musk of life
Left upon the threshold;
A broken door, open,
Gathering mould

I look in the mirror
Six feet high
Above the ground and the dirt
By my boots
And yet my face looks ugly
Soot stained
Without an inch of the fairy skin
I was blessed with
Years ago
One afternoon born of months old desire

Millions have walked past my place
Without a glance
At me
Standing upon the steps
Worn thin like razorblade
Red
Unwashed
Blissfully unfed

For to be alone
Not unwanted
And unwanted
But not alone
Differs in different ways

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.

5 thoughts on “The Remains of a Choice”

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