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 fire is kindling (8)
His eyes glint in the firelight, and for a moment, they seem too bright, too sharp.“I thought you were…” I trail off, unable to finish the sentence. Dead. Gone. A memory.
By gary jaxson2 years ago in Poets
the fire is kindling (1)
The fire is kindling, a whisper of smoke curling into the night sky as the first sparks dance. I crouch, hands steady, feeding the small blaze with dry twigs. Each snap and crackle echoes in the silence around me.
By gary jaxson2 years ago in Poets
the fire is kindling (2)
Eyes unseen pierce through the shadows, and though I tell myself it’s only the weight of solitude, my heart thuds louder with each passing moment. “Why did you come here?” I mutter under my breath, though there’s no one to answer.
By gary jaxson2 years ago in Poets
the fire is kindling (4)
Eric and I found this clearing by accident, stumbling upon it after a long day of chasing shadows and pretending to be explorers. We called it our “fort,” though it was little more than a patch of dirt and a ring of stones we’d arranged to form a fire pit.
By gary jaxson2 years ago in Poets
the fire is kindling (3)
Fire has always been patient with me, even when nothing else was. It asks only for fuel and attention—a deal I’m more than willing to honor. Behind me, a branch snaps. My head jerks around, heart hammering.
By gary jaxson2 years ago in Poets
the sun burns (10)
The sphere was their essence, their power, left behind not as a gift but as a curse. When the light faded, Nadia was on her knees, the sphere gone. Her skin felt different, her veins coursing with a warmth that wasn’t entirely her own.
By freddie price2 years ago in Poets
the sun burns (9)
Slowly, it slid open, revealing a room bathed in golden light. At its center stood a pedestal, and atop it, a sphere of pure, searing brilliance. It was like holding a piece of the sun itself, its light pulsating in waves. Nadia approached cautiously, shielding her eyes.
By freddie price2 years ago in Poets
the sun burns (6)
The carvings grew more intricate the deeper she ventured. Walls still standing told stories in their stone, depicting figures draped in flowing robes, their hands raised in supplication.
By freddie price2 years ago in Poets
the sun burns (7)
She hesitated, her instincts warning her of unseen dangers. But desperation silenced her doubts. The descent was steep, the stairs uneven and crumbling in places. She lit a torch, its flame feeble compared to the sun’s blaze but enough to pierce the darkness.
By freddie price2 years ago in Poets
the sun burns (8)
The last carving showed the spiral symbol alone, surrounded by jagged lines that resembled cracks or lightning. At the bottom of the staircase, she found a door. It was made of a strange, black metal that seemed to drink in the torchlight.
By freddie price2 years ago in Poets
the sun burns (5)
If Solis had left anything behind—a relic, a weapon, a shred of knowledge—she would find it. She had to. The cities she’d left behind were dying, their rivers choked with dust, their crops withered to brittle stalks.
By freddie price2 years ago in Poets
the sun burns (4)
They spoke of a time when the sun was revered, not feared; when it was a giver, not a taker. Her hand lingered on a particular symbol—a spiral enclosed by rays.
By freddie price2 years ago in Poets