Ballet of Love: A Symphony in Moonlit Gardens
Whispers of Eternal Love: A Poetic Journey Through Moonlit Dreams"
In a world of whispers, where moonbeams play,
A tale of love unfolds in a gentle way.
Upon the canvas of the twilight sky,
Our hearts entwined, soaring high.
In the garden of dreams, where wishes bloom,
A lovable saga begins to groom.
Two souls dancing in the soft moonlight,
Embracing the magic, oh, what a sight!
With laughter as sweet as a summer breeze,
And eyes that sparkle like the shimmering seas.
Love blossoms like flowers in the morning dew,
A symphony of emotions, old and new.
Through valleys of joy and mountains of grace,
Together we journey, hand in hand, pace by pace.
In the book of our story, each chapter a rhyme,
A melody of love that withstands all time.
Like a cozy blanket on a winter's night,
Your warmth surrounds, everything feels right.
In the tapestry of moments, woven so fine,
Our hearts beat together, a rhythmic sign.
So here's to the love that knows no end,
A companion, a confidant, a forever friend.
In this lovable journey, come what may,
Our hearts united, come what may.
About the Creator
MIKEY -KUN
In a world that sometimes feels chaotic, a writer serves as a sanctuary—a place where readers can find solace, connection, and a reminder that, even in the darkest of times, there is always a story waiting to be told.
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Red Shelves
Death is a black hole. Think about it. A black hole is the corpse of a star, something once warm and bright, now come to the end of its life cycle. But some will argue that the cycle of life does not end with death. That death is merely another path we must walk once our bodies expire and our souls ascend. In that moment, when the fuel in the star’s chemical tank hits empty and the shiny matte coat explodes into supernova, the mass left behind – the corpse – becomes a black hole. We understand that, around such a vast cadaver, dimensions work a little differently in death to the way we’re used to in life. For example, light cannot escape the pull of a black hole when it hits the point of no return. That’s where it gets its colour. Space itself is contorted by a black hole. That’s where it gets its funny shape. Even time. Time slows right down the closer you get to it. The closer you get to a black hole. The closer you get to death.
By Matthew Curtis4 days ago in Humans
Comments (1)
This was a very lovely poem! Wonderful work!