Anoril does Poetry ~ Grief, Curiosity and Vanity (Full Version)

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Anoril -> Anoril does Poetry ~ Grief, Curiosity and Vanity (8/3/2008 13:41:20)

Grief Herself

A grey drap lies before me
Asks I, Who is this wretched maiden
whose face is by shadow covered?
My answer, ‘Tis Grief herself.
Forever pining for that which,
will never be
Missing is her leg and heart and lungs
How does she exist so in such a state?
My answer is given,
In great pain, her being is held
as though by vice-like claws of reality
Come, let us leave this widow now
Let Time act to dismiss her hence



Anoril -> RE: Anoril does Poetry ~ Grief, Curiosity and Vanity (8/3/2008 13:42:30)

Curiosity Himself

‘Why am I drawn onwards still?’
asks I, ‘Who has deemed it so
that I must forever walk these halls?’
I receive no reply to question put forth
But still he speaks to me,
‘That which you see before you
wondered the same.’
Just from me there stands a man, yet somehow
In his posture, in his bearing,
stands every man born.
He grasps in his hands a living being,
A starling, young and brown.
With interested eyes and wondering expression
This man, he tears the wings from this mewling bird.
For what reason?
It is man who’d risk the world
Just to take the smallest thing
and cut it down yet further.
And it is man who’d imprison and torture
those it believes to hold inferiority.
And for what reason?
Yes, he who stands before me.
Curiosity himself.



Anoril -> RE: Anoril does Poetry ~ Grief, Curiosity and Vanity (8/3/2008 13:43:56)

Vanity Himself

And so my guide leads me to a new place,
to a new being, somehow different
from those I have seen before.
Bedecked in jewels and silk,
crowned in royal purple and regal black.
A smile of satisfaction given unto himself.
My guide to me, ‘It is the Brother of Pride we see before us…’
I do not let him finish but say myself, ‘Vanity himself.
Truly a blind man sees more than he. ’
Stands before Vanity, a mirror.
And stands behind him a thousand cast-out souls
Wailing in the darkness.
He looks into the mirror at his own image
Still horribly content with it.
Through the mirror I can see the helpless souls, but he,
Vanity sees only himself and is unseeing
to the suffering of those facing him.
A handsome face no doubt,
hiding a rotted and blackened soul,
The mirror lies to him,
if it showed truth he would see not golden locks ,
or porcelain skin. But instead,
flesh of a sickly hue and hair akin to seaweed,
left behind to rot in the sand.
The wailing continues and still vanity does not listen
Even as he moves from the mirror
and descends into the mass of suffering
I watch as he is lost in an impenetrable fog,
yet he sees clearly though it, he is blind.
Vanity sings his praises to those who will listen
Yet now I see as he speaks with them,
He has no ears.



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