The Nuclear Poet

Earth’s orgasm
Landmine upon lips
Sealed envelope without secrets
Night skinned by the sickle moon falling from the sky
Are all impossibilities dancing amidst You and I
In the ocean of distance between our shared woes
So far apart that none of us knows
How every step upon the stars
Makes us an inch divine
And a race of million miles
Ends, with a toe across the line
Lumps of black sugar, ice in oil
World of equations proved by poetic paradox
‘The dead were once alive’ squared to the infinite equals ‘The living were always dead’
Plagarism abound: Soul copying soul is a sin
Mind over Matter (Wrong Answer!)
Thus no one win
Burgundy bear, white hare
Wet weed on windowsill
Baskets built of bandaged hands
Turned alive as ‘Good-Bye Windmill’
Stretcher upon sidewalk
Etherized world
Vomiting vestiges
Of cannula fed time
Look around, look around
The worst has come, prepare,
This time the monsters aren’t ugly:
But smiling angels; unaware.

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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