Being dinovegetarian🌿
The gentle plant eating dinosaurs of the species.
Humans named us DINOSAURS
Herbivore, a nomenclature for our food preference🌿
In colossal majesty we roamed the Earth in prehistoric times
Gentle giants feasting on plants and vegetation 🌿
Leaf-eating, happy and free. 🌿
We were...
Triceratops🌿
Dracorex (†Dracorex hogwartsia)
Stegosaurus🌿
Hadrosaurs (Duck-billed Dinosaurs) 🌿
Sauropods 🦕 long-necked, long-tailed herbivorous dinosaurs.
Brachiosaurus🌿
As herbivorous, we dinosaurs were crucial in shaping prehistoric ecosystems
As we thrived on plant-based diets 🌿
Preparing the road for human habitation
Soon we shall return, fully expecting
That the humans kept their side of the bargain
Respecting and nurturing the forests as we had done
Harvesting only what they need
🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿
About the Creator
Novel Allen
Clouds come floating into my life, no longer to carry rain or usher storm, but to add color to my sunset sky. ~~ Rabindranath Tagore~~
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More stories from Novel Allen and writers in Poets and other communities.
At the Sheltering Doors
The doors, they always scrambled for the doors first. When they arrive and always by night it was a race to desperately bar the creatures entry to the house in the slow crawl of numb feet that the dream would impose upon him. He never seemed fast enough and the creatures uninhibited by the same constraints always made the doors first. The houses in his dream-scapes vary night to night - Some are mansions, others shacks and some are distorted contortions of his childhood home which burned down when he was ten. But the doors are always the same – frail, loose hinged and never could be fully shut. The creatures too vary – twisted and corrupted forms of animals and people familiar to him: family dogs preternaturally swollen to twice their size with rotting coats of mange and slicked damp with dark liquids of decay. The people too were bloated vestiges of ones vaguely familiar to him but whose names escape him. Their eyes gorged wide with dark blood which streaked their mottled faces in crusted trails like lost rivers which hung from their chins swinging in ropy columns beneath paling yellowed teeth. To let them break through would mean death. This he knew with grave certainty. At the door was desperation and panic as their stench emanated forth, sickly and pungent like vomit and mold and ending in a gruesome exhalation like cancer, the stench sticky and clinging invading his nostrils and lungs never to be expunged. Then in the sudden waking he never knew if he repelled them or not.
By Kevin Rolly3 days ago in Horror
Comments (5)
Ouch. We gonna be in trouble.
Oooo, I really want them to come back! That would be so cool! Hehehehehehe. Loved your poem!
Novel, what a wonderful tongue-in-cheek way to remind humans that we didn't honor anything very well. I'd love to go back to the days of horses and bicycles and non-processed food, and the Waltons!!
Great job!
Loved your work.