THE HUMAN ANVIL

Tag: poem

  • Touchstone

    Most people are nothing more
    But a day older come the morrow
    And that O mine Ache of Past
    Is the cause of everyday’s sorrow

  • Through The Lips Of Living Ghosts

    I live my life
    Through those who lived before me
    And triumphed,
    For mine are eggshell victories
    Inchoate brush strokes of the blind
    Left behind, listening to the faceless sounds
    Dreamt by dead branches and wayside stones
    Alone in their darkness
    Wherein all ashes intone
    The pleasure of being burned alive
    Only to never feel, another touch of life.

  • The Half Past

    It was half past ten
    In the broken clock
    Light flooded from the bathroom
    Vintage; as if streaming from another time;
    A past not yet undone by dialysis,
    I laid ankle deep in silk
    The shawl around my neck and feet
    Splitting me in two tragedies;
    Naked and none, while
    The feathers of my pillow whispered in their broken flight: “Do not close your eyes or all that you fear shall come alive”
    There was something in those words
    That left me speechless
    And so I slept
    Wide awake
    Breathing only for breathing’s sake.

  • Saints Of The Cynics

    How can you be so happy?
    Asked the fools to the wise:
    They said for we are people who do not believe in a paradise

  • The Pulse of A Petal

    I dissolve in the potpourri
    A green leaf amidst dead petal
    Lost men flock the streetcar
    And only I fight for the aisle
    Knowing far too well that the bespectacled windows
    Shall turn some blind in a while
    For the tapestry towns
    Stitched with dancing lights
    Is not for them to claim
    Who lick the darkness between two tungsten tongues
    And know no aftertaste to blame
    But the raindrop feet on cobbled streets
    Paper skin behind display glass
    Torn faces through the Venetian Blinds
    A world watered in a vase
    Are all akin
    To a bargained win
    For those with mundane affair
    Of humble hands with seawater veins
    Wading waves of deep despair
    But I of charlatan choice
    Of parched lips moisturised with the mud
    I know far too well of flowerpots
    And the fate of dreaming bud
    So I dissolve in the potpourri
    A green leaf amidst dead petal
    Growing gardens beneath empty graves
    Waiting for the dust to settle