THE HUMAN ANVIL

Tag: poet

  • Light Years


    My eyes cannot measure the distance,
    My heart knows our love is the same,
    I am falling like wax from a candle,
    Reaching for the touch of your flame

  • Leftovers


    In the end
    I am just a footprint in someone’s mind
    Till the dust of time settles 
    And there is nothing more one can find

  • Branches in my Backyard


    I once had branches
    That burned in my backyard 
    A pyre sans desire
    A fire drowned by its fire
    And at night
    In the dark
    When ghost grew like fruits
    From the shadow of its seeds 
    From the ashes of its roots
    One could hear 
    In the cast out whispers that they kept
    Broken words bandaged 
    Pain yet un-wept 
    And they said, they said
    In the black waves of bright flames 
    We are faces without faces
    Nameless within our names
    And if night be a star in the ocean
    And infinity an eternal motion
    If silence be the words without sound
    And self a state never to be found
    Then the world with it’s weight held in a grain
    And poets with their pens dipped in pain
    The weathered visages with their vermillion words 
    And the horizon a home for forgotten birds
    Is there to be seen, is there to be shown
    And not to be alone or utterly unknown 

    O the desire to be
    Loved by all 
    And the ache of letting go
    When it is harder to fall
    Because of the world with it’s quiet words left to rot
    On transparent eyelashes 
    Of eyes that dream, of eyes that dare
    Of eyes that hold, of eyes that care
    Should I wish upon myself an early demise 
    Would the darkness in it’s view find it wise
    Why then sometimes I want to be
    The silence that shapes the sea
    Why then sometimes I want to be
    Someone whom none can see

    Despair, beware
    I am a sky without cause
    My pain, insane 
    Do not ache for applause 
    Stare in the mirror
    O horror of my mind
    What you see is what you are
    Be gentle if not kind
    And whisper unto the wind
    These fables of your own
    For you are no Pietá
    But a statue turned to stone

  • My Woman


    He carried a corpse on his shoulder 
    A straw man made of stone
    And walked the nowhere path
    A footstep in a crowd; alone
    He had feathers on his broken back
    Which wept on silent nights
    And he wished for a shooting star
    Having never had one in sight
    The man was armed with silence 
    And buried tears in each eye
    Had no heart of which to speak of 
    And dared not ask why
    So he searched his own shadow 
    That wet the mosaic floor 
    And wondered if his life
    Even mattered anymore
    For he was a mortal man
    Who died in his own dreams
    And come night only his pillow
    Answered back his screams
    He thought of leaving it all
    And be dust and be free
    He thought of casting his anchor
    In the middle of the barren sea
    For him the changing world
    Was a wave that ever repeats
    And he questioned unto the chaos
    Why do I rhyme when nothing fits?

    Her face was a prison of prisms 
    Her eyes twin melodies of mind
    Her skin shone like vanishing velvet 
    Her kiss was one of a kind
    But she was no fabled princess 
    Wandering lost at his open door
    Nor was she a cast away goddess 
    He had once prayed to before
    She was a woman in making
    And held her heart in her own hand
    She knew the world as her oyster 
    And she a pearl in the prophetic sand
    She saw the world with its visage brimming
    With light bulbs and bright lies 
    So she searched for the one who stood 
    With bruises like midnight skies 
    He was a naked man
    Unclothed; without a name
    Who counted a single star
    Thinking that all were same
    To her he was a child unfed
    Left to roam as a newborn in wild
    Once without a home
    Through fate utterly exiled 

    He saw her hand in the ocean
    And the world closed around his eyes
    As he drowned in the water that whispered 
    Breathe now or the dream dies
    He felt her fingers upon his shoulder
    And he answered back in kind
    Till their lips sealed shut a secret 
    Which no soul could ever find
    And they danced in the depths like dolphins 
    Two kindred hearts as one
    Who wished so much for the stars
    That they grew their own sun
    So that when the leaves now rustle
    And the colours do not make sense
    They can watch the silence get slower
    And the rainbow go back in rain

  • The Other Side of A Window


    I searched for a word
    To help me answer; Who am I?
    But all I found was the sound
    Of seconds ticking by….

  • Black Be The Color

    The walls aren’t painted
    And there are orange pips on the table
    Arranged like a ten o’clock shadow
    Of an ornament left in a glass case
    And I dare not disturb
    Her architecture
    The tainted texture
    That peers out, as symbols, as summations
    Meaningless veracities, punctuated by punctuations.

    I cough
    And the dust coughs with me
    For the echo is swallowed
    By the floorboards
    Beneath our feet
    So I dance, I tiptoe
    I jump and I let go
    To remain suspended
    An unlighted chandelier
    Burning butanol or some such nonsense
    In my pockets

    My garden has gone grey
    The flowers; asthmatic
    Now wheeze in the wind
    Wrinkled and waiting
    For the next iteration of spring
    A seasonal afterlife
    That feels no soul smile and say;
    I will let you live
    If you follow my way

    Curious is the world’s design
    They who smile never know why
    And they who claim that they do
    Knows in their heart that it’s a lie
    Is happiness something
    That can never be found
    Like corners of a map
    Of a world that goes round

    If only I had
    Eyes that could see all
    Every thread of a thought
    From even streams and the stone
    I think I know
    What I would have known
    That this all, this enigma
    This play supposed to go on
    Is not worded by us
    We who think we have won
    For each life afterall in the end is the same
    Closed eyes, broken breaths
    And lost dreams with no name.









  • Immolate


    I hold myself
    Where it hurts me more;
    I prefer the pain of now
    To the pain before...

  • Diaspora

    I have seen the diaspora,
    Seen it’s bulbous head set against Saturn’s sky,
    Felt it’s pulse,
    Dreaming of chalk and charcoal,
    Seen it’s veins, deeper nerves,
    Coursing through promises
    Like an undulating snake.

    Men revise,
    Their adolescent mournings, teenage dreams made of,
    Pink flesh laid to rest,
    Against the grain of this world.
    A world long forgotten by the habit of forgetting,
    The shell of mirror,
    Slow as sinking stone,
    For lives lived, living,
    With unpolluted prose,
    Precise, pragmatic.

    I have seen the diaspora,
    The laughter of death,
    That parallel passage,
    Guided by fate.

    The fault never lied with dark,
    To light must fall the blame,
    For showing that of all,
    None are truly the same.

    Half the pleasure,
    Lies in having nothing,
    And losing it all.

    Here in shaped stillness,
    I ache for a shattering.

    Until I am no more.

    Now I am no more.

  • Parts of a Promise

    Image by Jasmin Chew @unsplash

    If my face now makes you weep
    Let my voice then put you to sleep
    So tomorrow when you awake
    Like a flower on someone’s grave
    Know there lies underneath
    He who asked you once to save

  • Shards of Symphony

    There has been a song in my head,
    Long since we met,
    And it had no lyrics of love,
    Just a music underway,
    I hum it when sad,
    When happy I whistled it twice,
    Only to find it everywhere, other day,
    With people like me; without a choice

    Ivory atoned in milk,
    Alabaster laid in salt,
    Your clothes, moonlight threaded,
    Upon skin without a fault.

    (I ramble of your beauty,
    When nothing is to be thought about)

    Remember the vase I gifted you once,
    Wrinkled porcelain,
    Thunder in glass,
    And you kept it hidden, under your warm clothes,
    Deep in the closet,
    Lest no mourner of life, of eternal charm,
    Plucks a fountain of flower,
    To abide, this graceful tomb;
    We adore and abide and anoint,
    With feelings, like watered paint, like warm breathe,
    Or something more forgettable.

    I found pieces of it the other day,
    Shards of symphony,
    Scattered voices,
    Gleaming, under the stairway,
    Spiting neon light;
    Forked tongue, poison.

    You had after all,
    Plucked one, a deep dark red,
    It’s fragrance; my fear of all things left unsaid.

    There is a reason roses have thorns,
    Everything comes at a price,
    Love is not a line in stone,
    Sometimes its roll of a dice.

    Now you tail windmills,
    And I can see your feet, nestled in grass,
    And your hand in your hair,
    Untying my knots,
    So the new wind, the new time,
    Can hold you aloft
    And make you feel at home
    As if that can suffice your bohemian soul
    That jukebox of rhythms
    You shuffle to make whole.

    Love to you was just a word to behold
    Words to you were feelings to be sold
    Feelings to you only a reason to be kind
    Reasons to you were reasons to nevermind.

    I shall remember, yes,
    When waiting for the flowers to bloom
    For a ship to set sail
    From the corner of my room
    That you, love,
    Never cared after all
    This was no poem or play
    You were writing on the wall
    But my life, this meagre, stuff made of snow
    A candle you alighted
    But forgot to blow
    And now the wishes they linger
    Like rats in the rain
    For leftover love
    Not poisoned with pain…