The Dance of the Dying


I am here in the now
Without a why
Or a how
Leaning upon this thought;
Who am I
And belong to what

Is this world the same as me
A life made alive in memory
Of being a being without a voice
Free to choose but without a choice

And shall the death be all it take
To make me cease and never awake
And to not know what all this meant
If the sinner in the end is same as a saint

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 Dance of the Dying”

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