Wisp – The Human Anvil


The needle was cold
Like ice
Drawn on paper
And my skin
Poured forth, at it’s touch;
Soft as vapour .

My, my, rainbow blue
Where are thou
In this sky:
Past Siberian prairies
Or neath valleys
Spilling high?

These dreams aren’t mine
Aren’t mine are these walls
I was taught to build them
To learn how to fall
And I still can so hear
Those bricks seeping salt
‘ We keep a part of you
As souvenir for each fault’

Dandelion, Daffodil
Kaleidoscopic in wind still.

Their is a saint at my door
His hands are all tied
He has one eye upon his forehead
To weep for the world wide
And he asks for the key
To be free
From the Pain
So I whisper to him the causes
Of the criminally insane.

The world, the world
Wither not by my words
It’s the pleasure in my veins
That so flutters as a bird
And breathes, full of life,
Even with autumn in my arm
Hold fire to my lips,
And let the numb still feel warm.

for more from this deep diver, click on over: https://thehumananvilblog.wordpress.com/

Published by grumpygorman

I am a Social Worker by day and an artist/writer by night. I use the written word in an attempt to make sense of the secret worlds and dysfunctional dynamics that lurk beneath the facades of our daily interactions. I am not sure how my writing styles are characterized, nor am I overly concerned about it. I am immensely enthusiastic about music and often connect better with songs than I do people. I also have an intense appreciation for quality wines and whiskies, frequently consuming them in excess. I like things that smell good and struggle to manage the symptoms of a life-long relationship with depression. So, why "grumpygorman"? Spend some time here and find out...

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