In the realm of shadows, where twilight descends,
A symphony emerges, a melody that transcends.
The nightingale awakens, its song begins to flow,
A poetic dance of music, captivating all below.
Beneath the moonlit canopy, its voice takes flight,
A dulcet serenade, weaving through the night.
Its feathers glisten, kissed by starry gleams,
As it serenades the darkness, fulfilling dreams.
Oh, nightingale, your voice, a gift divine,
A lullaby of solace, a treasure so fine.
Each note, a tender touch upon the soul,
An enchanting chorus that makes the heart whole.
Through moonlit meadows, your melody sweeps,
Caressing petals, stirring the woods from sleeps.
The trees stand tall, mesmerized by your tune,
A nocturnal ballad, painting night's lagoon.
With each breath, your voice cascades like a stream,
Whispering secrets that only dreams may deem.
From branch to branch, your wings embrace the air,
Unveiling tales of love, longing, and despair.
You sing of distant lands and love's embrace,
Of passions unrequited, in moonlit grace.
The nightingale's song, a solace to the weary,
A companion in darkness, a serenade so cheery.
But as dawn approaches, your melody must cease,
Retreating into slumber, finding solace and peace.
Yet in the hearts of those who heard your song,
The memory lingers, eternally strong.
Oh, nightingale, your song forever shall endure,
A testament to beauty, eternal and pure.
In the tapestry of night, you leave your mark,
A poet of the darkness, a nocturnal spark.
About the Creator
AHSAN
Embark on wild jungle tales, where nature thrives and adventure calls. Explore the untamed wonders, vividly woven through my stories. #JungleLife #Storyteller
A Chore Worth Doing
Begrudgingly, I tromped down the deck stairs. The clomping of my reluctant feet hit each one as I continued to descend. The sound echoed through the silent Saturday morning air. My resolve to do this began to erode until a cool, soothing wind caressed my cheeks. The serene stillness of this quiet morning wrapped me in an envelope of peacefulness. I sighed in relief. Ready to start my least favourite chore, but knew no one else would do it. I grunted in displeasure as I leaned down and coated my brush in paint, then pressed it to the fence. Finally done procrastinating, I began, and I allowed muscle memory to take over.
By Donna Fox (HKB)7 days ago in Poets
Six Feet Under
Buried alive. What a horrible way to go. Yazz lay there, in her own thoughts. What else could she do? She was hungry, thirsty, tired, mentally, and physically exhausted, and more than anything, she was bored. She hoped she would die of boredom before anything else, anything else would've been more painful. Like many people had, she and her friends had talked about what they reckon the worst ways to die were, it was a morbid subject, but it came up every now and again. Yazz had always been one to argue her point on drowning, others had mentioned burning alive, slowly and painfully bleeding to death, hung drawn and quartered, and being starved to death. It was strange that none of them had considered being buried alive, it had never come up. But now, she was thinking back to those conversations her and her friends had had, how could they have not thought about it? It took a lot longer than the others, you were completely confined, you couldn't move or do anything, you just had to wait, until your body was physically unable to support a life system anymore, which could take up to four days. Four! By far the longest out of all of them. She recounted some of these conversations just to try and pass the time, anything to pass the time. It was difficult to know how much time had passed since she had been underground, it was difficult to know anything. There were many things that Yazz didn't know, she didn't know where she was, she didn't know how she'd got into the coffin, she'd just woken up there. Yazz also didn't know what time it was, or even what day it was, she guessed at Tuesday, it was Sunday evening when she'd been buried alive, intentionally, and although it had felt like weeks had passed, she was still alive, which means she hadn't died from dehydration, and therefore it couldn't have been more than four days.
By Liam Storm6 days ago in Fiction
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