There lies an old secret in flowers so still, No face to be seen, yet hearts they thrill. The bouquet she held with fingers so mild,
By Fazal Malikabout a year ago in Poets
She lifts the flowers to the sky, so wide, As if her heart with them would glide. A scarf of peace, a robe of grace, No sorrow dwells upon her face.
In silence born, in silence fall, A whisper rolling down the wall Of cheeks that once held pride so high— Now drenched beneath a weeping sky.
Poetry: In the hush of night, he stands alone, A soul half-lost, in silence grown. Smoke spirals like forgotten dreams, Woven through moon's silver beams.
On the curve of night, where silence bends, A soul sits still as the dark transcends. Upon a branch that dares to dream, He rides the hush of moonlight’s beam.
I. The Dawn of Breath From silence sprung a whisper deep, Where stars and soil in cradle sleep, A breath was drawn, the first of flame,
Petals Against the Silence By Sahil’s Reflection She leans on stone that does not feel, A mask of time, so cold, so real.
I’m a stranger in a strange land The fan chugga chugga chugs As it blows away paper thugs The world shrugs As we slink like slugs
By Atomic Historianabout a year ago in Poets
Leaving glows with magnetic temptation The immaterial must pay no rent Unknown to them is mean competition They earn nothing, for they are truly spent
By D. J. Reddallabout a year ago in Poets
believing our-selves to be exceptionally kind to them while expecting them to be absolutely mean and unfair towards, these painful imaginations causes for imagination to imagine pictures and create thoughts at the center of which is a picture of self-pity, of being downtrodden, of needing care or of being special or thinking of oneself as"different"; a completely different and unique individual/human being that needs to be making special and interesting decisions and intelligence must be entirely absent from them
By Queen fabout a year ago in Poets
The inky window watches our passion Move repressed Edwardians to clutch pearls This sleepy, arching domestic fusion The pale toes of anxious puritans curls
Quis Curat They say Chase another carrot Ferreting out their sins Where does it end? A society built on lies Incapable of being wrong
