nature poetry
An ode to Mother Nature; poems that take their inspiration from the great outdoors.
What Slips in Through the Lines
Entering the darkened cavern of my reverie ([dropping all pretense of covering or paint] {stripping years} and presumption away). Snow starts falling* and drops the temperature* even during the day. Trudging in and out⌠waiting for breaks in the precipitation⌠to drag the logs back⌠or the warmth might die away. Even though I refill the fuel â the thermometer keeps dropping day after day â I start to fade away until finally â the sticks stop crackling. My pointless drudgery has inched to an end. Quietly coming to a state of solidity. My fingers fall on an open pad with pencil & paper /kindling\ to restore hardened hide to softened life. Steam slowly hissing off of pale speckled flesh. In the dancing sparks; as they fly off of me: One could almost swear they see fairies âdart and weaveâ touching every tiny hair and freckle > leaping in through the birthmark on my leg. Filling me with warmth and energy. Enough to stand and make it through! The words start pouring out of me~ in a shuddering uncertain pump action: : like a sputtering bloody cough. Force building to a blow, revealing the source:::: like a cancer that had been growing unknowingly in the pit of my lungs % waiting to burst and be released. With every word I expel<* more wickedness stored inside me gets torched away by the ignited fae â*â burning with passion fluttering inside me =clearing the way= until they escape in a cloud of burning hot air. Taking with them the last of the condensation clinging to my interior. I am left with words _-=stenciled all over the walls of this cave=-_ in blackened soot. There is a poisonous bileâ,, dripping from the holes in reality,, created by the shadowsâ,, of the 2Dâ,, letters,, when the sun goes downâ,, each night, that can be coââllected, buât donât letââ it touch your skin, you wilâl be permanently driven mââ,,adâŚâ,,
By K.B. Silver about a year ago in Poets
Whispers of the Earth. AI-Generated.
The wind hums low through ancient trees, their branches tracing stories in the sky. A river murmurs secrets to the stones, its cool hands carving paths with time. Sunlight scatters on trembling leaves, each shimmer a fleeting moment of gold. Petals unfold with gentle grace, answering morningâs soft call. Beneath it all, roots entwine unseen, holding the earth in a patient embrace. And we, small wanderers in this vast green world, pause to listenâ and remember we belong.
By Huzaifa Writerabout a year ago in Poets
