Today, the world has gotten smaller. I see a fish I’ve never seen before. A giant—an alien, holding me in the concave of its fin. I watch it breathe on the outside of the world, and I feel a certain restriction over my gills. I don’t know what this feeling is. There’s pressure building inside of me. I don’t know what to call this. Except, perhaps, a collection of fear.
`The theme Sidney writes about within this particular sonnet is about love like many of his other poems, as well as intertwined with the inevitable aging of time and the fading of the world. He does however change the tone compared to many other poems. He begins by expressing his despair about love and how time will always prevent him from eternally having his lover. Uniquely at the end stanza, he changes this tone to a hopeful and faith filled belief about love. His conclusion is that even though the world will end and their body along with the rest of the world will age, fade and die. Despite this, he knows that their love will live forever through their spirit. He knows this because their love is divine and so pure and true that their souls will be kept together among the heavens.
His soiled tears fell without haste to the ground on which he now stood upon forming particles of salt behind his eyelids now so dry, burning harsher than
Let me lay before the fire, like a cat outstretch with purring delight
, for the winter winds howl against the window
, battering snow into drifts across a wooded view, yet all the while we are sheltered from this storm.
mm. Let's say I hate literature. Not literature itself, but the teachers who teach them. Take this for example:-
The lord can do anything but this, just another poem of the times
I've come to know the power of drawing a line where I once wanted vast openness and deep connection outside of myself. The line is one that will hold me in silence as I embrace being alone, yet not lonely.
You are my every influence within this quick Nolita morning; a faded rose sky turns my fingertips into crystal caverns that cradle warmth into a secret I can hold in my hand.
I feel love
, by E Lloyd Kelly (the-poet)
I've listened to what other's had to say about me, like they know me, thinking they got it all figured out.
I'm walking on broken ground. An acrid tincture squeezes blood from my tongue to leave me muted in situ. Waiting to be usurped.