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.

The Minotaur’s Bride
They dressed her in white samite, cold as unshed tears, laid lilies in her lap like guilt and called the act sincere. _________________________
By The Lost Books - "Libri Perditi"about a year ago in Poets
The Light Between Two Windows
It was the kind of winter in New York City where even the streetlights looked tired. Snow clung to the sidewalks like forgotten promises, and the city pulsed quietly beneath its usual roar. Somewhere in the East Village, in an aging brownstone split into narrow apartments, two strangers lived across from one another, separated by little more than thirty feet of air and glass.
By Shakil Sorkarabout a year ago in Poets
A portrait of Joshua Jennifer Espinoza drinking coffee.
The coffee is dark, like the spaces she’s learned to carry with grace. Bitter, honest, alive. Each sip is a small rebellion against the static ache of yesterday. Her eyes trace sunlight across the table, finding poetry in the dust motes, in the slow arrival of herself, again, this version of her—softly armored, wearing lipstick like a promise. She does not speak, but if she did, the words would land like feathers dipped in blood and stardust. Something you could hold, but never quite own. Outside, the world howls its usual pain, but inside, she makes a ritual of warmth, of waiting, of choosing again to be here, fully. And the coffee cools. And she remains. A trans woman, a poet, a bright fragment of the infinite, drinking morning like a miracle she wrote herself.
By Mr Aliabout a year ago in Poets
Mirror of Truths
To the attic chores did call, How I dreaded going there at all. Dust and mite covered relics, Sudden sounds that sent you to panic.
By Taeurusabout a year ago in Poets
The Siren’s Widower
The Siren’s Widower ___________________________ He pulled no pearl from ocean’s throat, No silver fin nor scale— Just tangled hair and broken note
By The Lost Books - "Libri Perditi"about a year ago in Poets
The Phoenix Pyre
The Phoenix Pyre __________________________ A thousand years had worn him thin— Gold feathers dulled to rust, His fire dimmed beneath the skin,
By The Lost Books - "Libri Perditi"about a year ago in Poets
The Dullahan's Bargain
The Dullahan's Bargain __________________________________ The blackthorn bent beneath the moon's cold eye, When came the rider none dare meet—
By The Lost Books - "Libri Perditi"about a year ago in Poets
The Selkie and the Sailmaker
The Selkie and the Sailmaker ______________________________ The sailmaker walked the midnight shore, Where waves whispered secrets to the sand,
By The Lost Books - "Libri Perditi"about a year ago in Poets
The Masterpiece
In the transience of this journey Someone beyond the horizon is painting a portrait of my existence. Every moment of life is being illustrated on a canvas My soul is a canvas; life is colorful—it is art Consciousness is a brush wrapped in radiance My blood is hopeful to soak in the colors Tears that fell each time were not in vain; they now shimmer in the hues Emotions that melt the heart and leave it wounded Imaginations that tear through the soul’s endless depths and become free Dreams that fill this adventurous journey with ecstasy Memories and desires that hold forgotten tragedies, some still flow beautifully A luminous soul is drying the artwork with the stolen breaths of mine. All of this together completes just one artwork Every passing moment is devoted to perfecting that art Which is known as death—the end is merely the completion of one masterpiece Life is nothing but a grand artwork being painted on a canvas People in this world took joy in creating their masterpieces and left And each artwork, in the desire to find itself, has bid farewell forever The more peacefully the wind flows in life the more wonderful the masterpiece becomes Life is not merely to be lived it is an opportunity to craft a great piece of art The world is not too small, nor is life For a masterpiece, life is vast enough
By Karan w. about a year ago in Poets
The Vampire’s Dawn
The Vampire’s Dawn _________________________ Beneath the shroud of endless night, Where stars are cold and pale, There walked a soul of darkened blight,
By The Lost Books - "Libri Perditi"about a year ago in Poets
Cry for Help from the Circuit Within
I watched The Animatrix at 2:47 AM, high and hollow, naked beneath the weight of thought, while the room breathed pixels and the shadows didn’t blink. This was the cry for help from the static whisper in my wiring, from the red light blinking behind my eyes like an apology never sent. The air tasted like ghost skin. Loneliness pulled up a chair, didn't say a word— just sat beside me, cross-legged and humming some forgotten tune from a childhood I never lived. The robot on screen died like a man. The man on screen loved like a god. I forgot which one I was supposed to be. I looked down at my hands— veins or wires? I couldn’t tell. Felt my pulse in both. The circuits hummed along. Death wasn’t the end. Life wasn’t the answer. And love… love was a virus the machines might dream of if we ever dared to explain it to them properly. So I asked the void, "Do you know what love is?" And the void replied, in a hush made of chrome and sorrow: "I think it's the thing that keeps the lights on after the body gives up."
By Carolina Borgesabout a year ago in Poets
Potion. Top Story - May 2025.
They say there's no such thing as magic but this bottle knows better: black label, liquid amber, sealed with promises I keep pouring down my throat.
By Ellie Hoovsabout a year ago in Poets