The Clockmaker’s Son He built small worlds from gears and glass, Each tick a song, each chime a prayer, He said that time was made of love,
By ♿ V+ Marie381Uk 12 months ago in Poets
Introduction I think some of the things that we are always on the hunt for are happiness and joy, and if we are lucky, love.
By Mike Singleton 💜 Mikeydred 12 months ago in Poets
home never felt so much like home, unless i was home alone in my room, or climbing a tree, or swinging freely to my music in the backyard.
By kp12 months ago in Poets
My hippocampus has a leak in it, and every step I take spills out a form of you I’m forced to relive. It’s more languid,
By D12 months ago in Poets
Honey on the Wound You said the truth would sting at first—then sweeten where it should, So lay it bare, then breathe it in: put honey on the wound.
By Milan Milic12 months ago in Poets
Doubt ruled all interactions Dubiously scribbling every Hashed-out letter Each shakily constructed sentence Formed in blind obeisance to the past
By K.B. Silver 12 months ago in Poets
Our Society Today is Deeply Focused on the Goals... The End... The Awards... The Recognitions. It has Become Something that We Seek to Desperate Ends.
By H.E. Dr. Cody Dakota Wooten, COIE, DFM, DHM12 months ago in Poets
I have hunted many things— the scared little heart of the deer in the first rays of the sun, the glitter of the truth in the eyes of the two lovers,
By Dylan Deckard12 months ago in Poets
The Black Cat Who Walked Through Shadows He came one night without a sound, his eyes two golden lanterns, burning against the hush of dark,
Sh! You'll wake it!! Missed what you already have Because you were too busy trying. Sewing a stone to a heart’s beat. Is the same as looking for a unicorn in the real world.
By Christopher Falcione12 months ago in Poets
Toddling toddlers toddle in the grass Chasing elusive will-o-wisps Cackling as grasshoppers jump at last ***** A jar of lightning bugs sits under a bush
By Andrew C McDonald12 months ago in Poets
Salted Hallelujah I kept my praise in jars of brine, a hush beneath the blue, a hymn that stung the tongue to sing, but still it wanted through.
