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.
A Path Forged in Soot and Snow
"I have come to lead you to the other shore; into eternal darkness; into fire and into ice." -- Dante Alighieri Hark! Who hath trodden this chasm-splintered path? Who, through sulphur and razor barbs of obsidian, doth track? Who would brave death and destroy all ahead of my unbound soul?
By K.B. Silver about a year ago in Poets
Your Silence Will Protect You
You bite your tongue and dim your flame, Afraid they'll judge, afraid of shame. You hold your thoughts behind closed eyes, And wrap your truth in quiet lies. The world is loud with pointed blame, So silence shields you from the flame. No questions asked, no heart laid bare, No wounds exposed, no soul to care. But silence, love, is not a wall— It's just a pause before the fall. A buried scream, a soft retreat, A truce declared in self-defeat. Will silence stop the ache inside? Or teach the tears they must not slide? The world won’t see what you don’t show— And pain, when hidden, learns to grow. Speak softly if you must, or loud— But let your voice cut through the cloud. For silence may protect your face— But never fills the empty space. So speak your name. Speak what you feel. For only truth has power to heal. And though your silence guards your soul, Your voice is what will make you whole. ---
By The Pen of Farooq about a year ago in Poets
The Hands of Time
Time is a river that never looks back, A whisper of stars on a sky-turning track. It slips through fingers, silent and thin, A thief in the night, yet a place to begin. It heals all wounds—but leaves a scar, A mark that shows us who we are. We chase the future, mourn the past, While now, the present, fades too fast. A baby laughs—then learns to cry, A mother smiles and waves goodbye. The clocks may tick, the years may fly, But truth remains: we live, we die. Yet in between those first and last, Are quiet moments flying fast— A walk, a hug, a secret glance, A song, a kiss, a second chance. So let the hours freely roam, But build your memories close to home. For time won't wait, nor ask, nor pause— It simply moves without a cause. Make every second bold and bright, A spark within the endless night. For time is fleeting—but sublime, A story shaped by hands of time. ---
By The Pen of Farooq about a year ago in Poets
A Whisper in the Moonlight
When midnight falls upon the weary land, And silence holds the earth in ghostly hand, A whisper drifts where once our vows were sworn— Soft as the breeze that bends the golden corn. “Dost thou remember?” echoes in the trees, Where once we danced beneath the star-kissed breeze. Thy voice, though gone, still lingers in the air, Like roses blooming in the cold despair. O Love! Thou art a fire that does not die, But hides 'neath ashes, burning on the sly. Though time may steal thy shadow from my sight, My heart still hears thy footsteps in the night. If Heaven wills we meet not here again, I'll dream of thee — beyond the mortal chain. ---
By The Pen of Farooq about a year ago in Poets
The Bird That Couldn't Fly
Upon a beam of old, dry oak, A silent bird no longer spoke. 🐦 Her wings once kissed the morning sun, Now folded back — no longer run. ☀️ A rope was wound around her chest, Not made by hands — by thoughts suppressed. 🪢 Not hunters’ snare, nor net of thread, But fears and doubts her mind had bred. 💭 She used to glide through dawn's first gleam, Chasing light and chasing dream. ✨ She'd race the clouds, she'd laugh with rain, But now she sings a song of pain. 🌧️ “Oh skies,” she chirps, “do you recall, The days I dared, the times I’d fall? But I would rise, oh how I’d fly, With stars beneath and moon up high.” 🌙🌌 Her claws still gripped the weathered wood, Her heart still beat — it understood. ❤️ Though rope may bind and days grow dim, The will to soar still burned within. 🔥 Each feather held a tale untold, Each tear a drop of courage bold. 😢🪶 The cage she wore, she made herself, And hung it gently on a shelf. 🪟 A single breeze, so soft, so kind, Whispered truth into her mind: “You’re not too small, you’re not too late— The skies still hold your open gate.” 🕊️✨ With trembling breath, she closed her eyes, And dreamt of blue and endless skies. 💙 The rope, though tight, began to fray— A sign her fears would fade away. 🧵 And when the sun began to rise, She stretched her wings with no disguise. 🌄 One leap of faith, one final cry— The bird at last began to fly. 🕊️💫 ---
By The Pen of Farooq about a year ago in Poets
