art
Poetry and art go hand in hand; in fact, a poem is just art in the written form.
Whispers in the Dark
The night falls with frozen bated breath, A place of misery where the dead go round. Darkness darts in places where it should shine, And nothing in it all is what it meaning is. The steps on tattered floor, A scream lullaby at every door. Ghostly hands in the windows rattle, Time passes away as sands in streams. An out portrait frowns on you, Basing stories on drowned spirits. The candle-flames shiver In, their teeth bite back In. Testing ways of the midnight black. A planky creak, a moaning sound, It is awesome, solemn as stone. the gone faces shimmer in mirrors, And speak in secrets at the dawning. What you cannot name is in the attic, A dark companion is waiting to take part in the match. Halls stretch, you attempt to run, And the darkness eats all of your hair.
By INFO INSIDER about a year ago in Poets
Whispers Between the Lines
Whispers Between the Lines Some stories are not written in ink, but in silence, in pauses, in the spaces we leave unspoken. --- The Bookshop Rain tapping the glass, a lantern sways in the wind, the bookshop waits— leaning shelves heavy with forgotten names. Elara enters, a stranger wrapped in stormlight. The old man lifts his gaze, his voice a feather in the hush: “You’re late.” She shivers. Not from cold, but from the weight of a sentence that seems older than her bones. --- The Book No title, no author, only a golden thread on leather skin. She opens it— blank pages stare back, yet the silence hums, like breath caught between words. That night by candlelight, she whispers: “Who are you?” Ink bleeds, slow as dawn across the sky: “I am what you have not yet said.” --- The Voice The book becomes a mirror, its whispers braided with her hidden scars. “Not broken. Only unfinished.” it tells her. “Love is not found. It is remembered.” She writes, and the pages answer. She listens, and silence becomes company.
By Noman Khanabout a year ago in Poets
The Language of Falling Leaves
🍂 Introduction: When Nature Teaches Us to Begin Again Every season carries its own poetry, but autumn speaks in a language unlike any other. The falling leaves are not just signs of endings—they are whispers of renewal, reminders that change, though sometimes painful, is necessary for growth.
By Nadeem Shah about a year ago in Poets
