All posts by 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.

Semblance


The mirror broke,

And so did the image, 

In thousand, thousand pauses, 

 A violent birth that altered all,

The semblance and the sync, 

By the valleys of crest and the peaks of trough, 

Everlasting ephemerally,

To shatter the illusion,

Restive to change,

Of face and fate, fickle of desire

the ring of truth, absolved by fire,

Sand, silica and stone of lime,

Filling the void, bereft of heart, 

Gathering, gathering,

In ages untold, 

Layers of past and of that present,

Dust and ashes, Bricks of blood, 

Raised in memory, forgotten barrow,

Tombs of today, altars tomorrow,

True to find,

In semblance, of semblance, for semblance, 

A voice raised, in echo unheard,

Whispering reflections, the sentinel erred.

The Form


It takes but a moment, yet lingers for a lifetime,

Such is the mystery, 

Of dust and the shape of sand,

Of waves and the alchemical moon, 

Like freedom caged in verse and words,

Indifferent to change, still inimicaly altered.

Such things speaks of a nature, 

Adherening to the desire,

That pulses, and reshapes, 

Reshapes and regains,

New meanings, new understanding,

An attempt, nothing more, 

To leave a part, a living part, 

So as to be remembered,

In quest of the flaw, 

For being remembered, is being immortal.

And that is all there is, such is all there shall.

The Day We Stand.

Feel free to fear, and dear to dread,

Ye, searchers of true happiness.

In quaint ways, do stumble and fall,

Bloodied, broken, as alone as all.

Gather wind, must tempest sing,

In wails mourning bygone days, 

Just as each stone is tempered bone,

So are all legends, stories sown.

Let nightmares guide, your quest of truth,

Each martyr a milestone honed in ruth,

To find, and find, the pledge of faith, 

By life’s sorrow, and peace of death.

Rest not till blood, gushes white,

Rest not till withers hardened lies,

Rest not till tomorrow touches dawn,

Rest not till each is on his own.