The Night

The Night smiled and the world froze into a mirror:
An eye without eyelids
A face without feature
But timeless in its taste
Like truth without teacher,
With flowers on her forehead
And sweat upon her thigh
The sea painted on her toenail
And the sun a firefly
Dancing just dancing
On her gold lips as lullaby

And oft she would curl up to sleep
Unwanting to know the names
Of those who suckled her milk
Only to sell it for pixie dust
And white rum to last a lifetime of
Blood on her hands
Flames in her hair
Dreams stitched in her dresses
Leaving her perpetually bare

Pendulum minds
Prone to tongue tennis and cold showers
Stare out the window
At the hips of dark roads
Fading under street lamps
Like sunset on a shore
Shriveled drops of moonlight on their face
And she watching the cold blue sky
And those blind stars; invisible,
Laughing in the background
Like extras from silent films
Happy to beheld
The recurring eternity
Of everyday life…

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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