surreal poetry
Surrealist poetry embodies the essence of poetry itself, drawing upon shocking imagery and lyrical incongruities to comment on the inner-workings of the mind.
Marigold
I went to bed, hoping the next day never began. Toiled and troubled, those were to my end. I slept. And then I woke up. In the hallway, it was pretty bare. Silver with no gold, empty and cold. I went through the corridor and to the door. It was brown and warm, like a sunset bold. I pushed the door open, wanting to see. All that laid over before me. It was a field of marigolds, so bright. No night in sight for me eyes to see.
By Tea and chocolate lover 5 years ago in Poets
The Cord
Winnowed orchids arguing not to be isolated from life, to carry delight to the eye however briefly then witheres and disintegrates, tis the sluggish assignment, if this magnificence is the thing that you look for, care for the entire, permit it to keep its cord, so its excellence might be appreciated the full course of the time apportioned such things. The keeping of the climate, the watering, the keeping of the life, might be some work contrasted with the first, wherein the work is short as is the prize, while the later is appreciated to it's full cycle. There is a spot for both. For whose space is unlimited. And some are very delicate in their needs to ensure vitality.
By Johnny Gerbrandt5 years ago in Poets
Rubble
Hollowed heroes drifting into immensely grave stricken lands torn asunder by giants of old, billowing clouds loom ominously overhead, caverns of smoldering sacred slur lingerie. Inornate witnesses watching and waiting for their plunder. Delving desperately into the treasure of another, bathing in their glory commemorating shame engulfed by abandonment. The taste of the felling has come and their glory has turned to stone and rot, valor and strength in character has risen and flooded the once dry land barren of fortitude, now coxed to flourish to grow for the shameful have been cast and the valiant stand as does the character that lies within, amidst the mounds of once thought treasure seemingly only to be rubble.
By Johnny Gerbrandt5 years ago in Poets
