A vanishing act like no other - Here's how it starts. First you wobble - a bump in the road, a misstep on the path, then you tumble.
By S. A. Crawfordabout a year ago in Poets
In the beginning, there was silence. A breathless hush before the soul was carved. And then, Love whispered into dust— "Be," and man was born—startled, alive,
By Muhammad Abdullahabout a year ago in Poets
O Man of pride! O King of Dust! O traveler chasing winds and rust! Thy crown is made of fleeting breath, Thy throne—a speck beneath the Death.
When the hourglass breaks and the sands have spilled, And silence falls where the noise once thrilled, We stand before the mirror of the End—
I have seen the face of man, Not the outer flesh but the lurking stain— A mask so proud, it veils the shame, A crown of thorns worn in disdain.
I have a dream, Not the kind that fades at dawn, But one that blazes in the soul Like a star that keeps the night warm. It sings in silence,
I was a thorn upon the breeze, A brittle voice, a rustling sneeze Of sorrow’s breath, of fire and drought— But Love came softly, burned me out.
By the wind, by the leaf, I lived. And I live still. I was the whisper of a morning breeze, Soft on your skin, tender as hope.
I didn’t set out to write poetry. I wasn’t trying to be profound or poetic or even brave. I was just trying to survive. There were days when the ache in my chest was too big to speak out loud. Days when the grief, the shame, the fear, or the sheer heaviness of living felt like more than I could carry. And in those moments, I did the only thing that made sense:
By Irfan Aliabout a year ago in Poets
In emerald veils and ruby flame, Above the clouds, the Quetzal came— A sovereign bird in sacred flight, Cloaked in dawn’s transcendent light.
No one will love you if you act so conceited, is that so? That’s a shame I’m serious, well I’m not, what makes you think this isn’t just a facade,
By Illusiveabout a year ago in Poets
