THE HUMAN ANVIL

Tag: writing

  • Flowers Don’t Sing


    I know you don’t have to listen
    To all that I have to say
    And to be true I am just talking
    To myself everyday
    It’s sad, I know:
    To see myself smile
    And even the reflection
    To return it
    Only once in a while…

  • PIECES

    All that is left now;
    Is for us to write
    Of our dreams of the day
    That died in the night

  • A Lifetime


    If all the nights
    And all the days
    Of my life
    Condense
    In one epiphany without end
    Then friend hear well
    That the clock, when it strikes midnight,
    Will not be pointing at twelve

  • The Silence Along My Spine


    It is a dream I do not remember 
    But remember all the same
    Like those faces I desire 
    Without knowing their name
    As if in the grand scheme of things
    Wherein a million stories unfold 
    I am just a chapter 
    Of a young man who grew old

    These oceans which are open
    These skies which are blind
    These forests which aren’t silent 
    These mountains sans a mind
    Are mine to behold and break
    To bind and to find
    For the similes to be kept never similar 
    And metaphors ever one of a kind

    You can call my claims childish 
    Or let my words make you weep
    When you see the vacuum in my voice
    Hover upon my lower lip
    Where the broken wind balances 
    Those desires and despair 
    And life in its likeliest form 
    Is heartbeat at the end of a hair

    If only I could myself see and show 
    What I have lost in my pursuit to know 
    The allegories of living 
    Without wanting to grow
    Alas, I have my own 
    Reason to bear the blame:
    For to the man who shall leave no footprints 
    The dust is all the same

  • Fault of the Flower

    Would it pain
    She asks
    Knowing all too well that it would
    But I said No
    As if saying thus shall make it so
    And watched
    Drifting in the lap of the night
    Horror’s hand take hold
    And smother
    The last filaments
    Those final particles
    Ruminated remnants
    Hers and my own
    Settle on the dying petals
    Of the flower we painted
    But forgot to plant
    If only we had not been
    Part myopic, part colourblind
    There would have been gardens to tend
    New flowers to sow
    Some fragrance to find

  • Filaments

    Have you been silent for so long
    That you wondered if you belong 
    With the people
    Who left
    Listening to all that could be heard
    Whilst wondering about each word
    As if the carcass of it’s meaning 
    Will somehow survive
    Those ages spent playing dead
    Trying to stay alive

  • Nothing to Dream

    Image by Atlas Green @unsplash

    If I could be free
    From the echoes of other people
    And be something more than
    A traffic light thought
    Winking in the dim halls of their tragic mind
    I would prefer being a butterfly
    Frozen in ice
    That way
    My beauty though long lost; euthanised,
    Will live still
    In regret
    That beautiful cancer
    Common to all men
    Drooling on sad lips of time
    Like honey gone bad;
    A tasteless parable for
    Once a good man now gone mad
    From the cold touch of metal people that I meet
    With their eyes upon my river back, my other face and feet
    With yellow leaves gathering
    In a dry rage to drown
    My steps towards the hilltop
    Within the noise of a dead town
    Asking me to surrender
    Asking me to still
    For being born amidst wrong angels
    To die right under heel

    On nights like paraffin
    When shadows too burn
    I curl into concrete
    And cease to ache
    To be deeply awake
    Of all the things I am not
    As sought by those carvers
    Shaping my form into chess pieces,
    Dull black and off white;
    A crooked king, a broken queen and two quixotic knights
    To be kept alive and conquered
    Or cast into the unheard
    Age of borrowed sentiment
    A proud brick in a ruinous monument
    Should I now pray
    To whetstones
    Wet with sweat wounds of men
    Pierced alive
    With the worms of their own wisdom
    Or within the confines of my
    Diluted divinity
    Fall prey
    To the sinful delight
    Of being right
    And fall asleep
    With this winter as witness
    And awake when the dying dream
    Is truly dead
    And the sound of turning wheels
    No longer praise
    Destinations remembered along forgotten ways…

  • Some Lotus Are All Roses

    I have spent half my life
    Looking how I was wanted to be seen
    Powdered to the tip of my nose
    Accurately thin
    With anklets on my feet
    That laughed alone in night
    And a locket round my neck
    Buried out of sight
    I had flowers on my frocks
    When I was a lotus bud soft pink
    And roses in my hair locks
    When I was allowed to think
    As if my beauty was just a face
    Without a wish or voice
    As if being born the way I was
    Had something to do with choice
    If only I could have told them then
    The thoughts I had in my mind
    Of my mantelpiece existence
    Of being beautiful but kept blind
    Alone as my own mirror
    Echoing solitude
    Days spent dressed for the world to wonder
    And nights being ashamed to be nude

  • In The Heart Of What We Know

    The Sea reminds me
    Of falling in love
    With a shadow
    Of a Dove
    Who, having slept in flight
    At the stroke of midnight
    Awoke falling for
    Dewdrops of sunlight

    But the Sea is sadness
    And her roots are all songs
    Left by sailors
    Too eager to sail
    Alone into oblivion
    In a hope to live a tale
    Written by some abandoned watchtower
    Laughing beside the dock

    And the Dove, crystalline in her virgin whiteness
    Covets the Shore;
    With his silence a song
    Played by the sand
    Unaware that only the lost
    Will be found
    In the seed of his sound

    Thus they remain knitted
    The Dove, Sea and Shore
    In search of another
    Forevermore
    So blind in their yearning
    Of the love they cannot find
    That none waits to see
    The one left behind

  • Mosaics

    Image by Drew Collins @unsplash


    I wish to speak with myself
    The conversation
    Neither a monologue nor a soliloquy
    But I am afraid I would not allow
    My own confessions
    This heart knows far too much
    Of envy and hate
    And much too less
    Of chance and fate; those dark mistresses
    Pulling and pushing
    The tide of each rebirth
    Should I excuse myself within reason then
    And let the age that passes through each of us
    Sunder me to atoms
    Annihilating; once and for all
    Each kingly cause
    And gangrene dream
    Festering upon the thin skin of mind;
    For the soul in the end is nothing more
    Than a shadow aware of it’s own existence.
    Or should I in opus thoughts claim
    The Midas Touch
    And let the pleasure and pain
    Every loss and gain, ravage me alive
    Into my own version of heaven and hell
    Beyond resistance and repercussions
    Or time and it’s tale
    And dare to be free
    For once all of me?
    Alas the soul cannot know
    Of which the mind did not sow
    Thus I remain here
    Within this blindness which seek
    The mirror left behind;
    And await my reflection to speak.