I Was an Anvil without Rust

I felt like I was dying, again

Only in passing

I do not dread the day in which the blackness

Will return

Fell through awkward silences as if

I was an anvil

Without rust

Dead writers on the wall

(James, Wilde, Shaw, Twain, Hardy, Emily)

The sun had burnt my pupils lightly

Bill’s sonnet sprouted

You are the grave where buried love has lived

They are there,

As well as I, I think, while staring

Into Mennonites

My black lungs lust for one more

(I will give in, again and again)

About Sean William Lynch
Sean Lynch is a writer and editor who lives in South Philly. Lynch's first book of poems, the city of your mind, was published in 2013 by Whirlwind Press. His second chapbook, Broad Street Line, focusing on politics and public transportation, was published by Moonstone Press in 2016. 100 Haiku is his latest release, also published by Moonstone Press in 2018. Lynch's writing has been featured in numerous publications online and in print, including (parenthetical), Poetry Quarterly, and Tincture Journal.

13 Responses to I Was an Anvil without Rust

  1. dizzy says:

    Hey Hey, My My… Rust Never Sleeps… Dig the kid playing the giant pencil!

  2. Oh, we all have those black thoughts. They tend to plague me at least once a day before I banish them to the nether realms.

  3. lukerian says:

    I definitely identify with this poem. There’s a vulnerability in the narrator’s voice that is believable and pressing. What a poem. Great work.


  4. luxeternele says:

    Dear Sean Lynch,
    I nominated your blog for the Reader Appreciation Award. If you choose to accept, please see my post for details of how to receive the award: http://luxeternele.wordpress.com/2012/08/15/recognizing-brilliance-reader-appreciation-award/
    Love, Nikki

  5. kkline922 says:

    Thanks for stopping by my blog and deciding to follow. I appreciate it. This was a lovely poem. Look forward to reading more. Cheers.

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