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Earth and Incense

Watch me shape sandcastles to fall in the downpour

By bishnu prasadPublished 4 months ago 1 min read
Earth and Incense
Photo by NASA on Unsplash

Hello, sorcerer.

I saw as your grave.

It was basic:

I followed the stencil of your life

from postcards retained.

Keep in mind?

You thought of me once

from this shore. Told

of ocean birds dark

as hellebore.

The breeze tolls discuss your return.

They clatter.

Freezing, maybe by the wizardry

you pull from the fog.

Supporting you, tricking

your slither from the decay.

Warlock,

I understand which spells are.

My psyche

sops up excellence limitless.

Mud underneath the ocean side.

Watch me shape sandcastles

to fall in the downpour, disintegrate

in the sun.

However they solidify longer

than you naturally suspect.

Nothing endures… yet

magnificence knows no restriction.

You composed of galleries, once.

Forcing, plated places

that sang with voices of the past.

I tracked down yours yesterday.

They say some time in the past,

a man was killed;

prehistorian

who uncovered bits

of you.

(Indeed, your set of experiences.)

It frightened me

to hear that specific

reverberation

(what's more, galleries

should repeat

just to remind you

of your littleness.)

In any case, this reverberation

reverberation… reverberation…

was a result of void.

It frightened me to hear it.

I keep thinking about whether you'd speak loudly

from the dead?

You curation was

puff displays

smoke figures

jawless skulls.

Millions

also, one long

ceaseless

reverberation.

Nothing endures for eternity,

you know.

Sorcerer, I see

your reality.

The alarm called me

away today. Dejected notes

furthermore, pants the musicality,

destroying me.

I knew then, your destiny:

You saw yourself in her eyes,

tested. She took you

under. However

you are right here, beating

beneath the earth. Frustrated.

At the point when you rise,

I wonder who'll set you burning

first. Unholy structure, be accursed!

Numerous to observe the seethe —

this purifying

from your power.

Spells are simply wishes

from past the cloak,

sparkly things

ravens exchange spirits for.

I'll cull from your hill

this hellebore,

this, your last postcard.

inspirationalnature poetryhumor

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Comments (2)

  • Dharrsheena Raja Segarran4 months ago

    Is this for Poppy's Prompts Challenge? You nailed it! Loved your poem!

  • Alex H Mittelman 4 months ago

    Wow! Great poem! Very impressive! Well written and amazing!

BPWritten by bishnu prasad

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