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 sun burns (3)
Now, she was foolish in another way, defying it not with speed but with sheer, stubborn endurance. The air shimmered with heat, distorting the horizon. Nadia squinted, trying to discern stone from illusion.
By freddie price2 years ago in Poets
the sun burns (2)
The ruins lay ahead, their jagged silhouettes barely visible through the shimmering mirage. Legends whispered that these crumbled stones held secrets older than the sand itself, secrets that might save a world teetering on the brink of collapse.
By freddie price2 years ago in Poets
the sun burns (1)
The sun burns. An undeniable truth, ancient and unforgiving. It is both life and death, warmth and desolation. In the vast expanse of the desert, where every grain of sand holds the memory of another searing day, the sun reigns supreme.
By freddie price2 years ago in Poets
the snow melts (9)
If anything, it only reinforces the sense of inevitability that’s been gnawing at her all day. The snow melts. The seasons change. Life moves forward, whether she’s ready or not. By evening, the temperature has dropped again, and the meltwater that had pooled in the low spots has frozen over, forming thin, glassy sheets of ice.
By eric jameson lutz2 years ago in Poets
the snow melts (10)
It’s the kind of tiredness that comes from too much thinking, from carrying the weight of too many unspoken questions. She wonders if Noah feels it too, or if he’s content to let the days pass as they always have, one blending seamlessly into the next.
By eric jameson lutz2 years ago in Poets
the snow melts (6)
The creek at the edge of the property is swollen, its icy surface giving way to a steady flow of dark, churning water. Olivia finds herself drawn to it, the way she always is, and she stands on the bank, watching as the current carries away bits of ice and debris.
By eric jameson lutz2 years ago in Poets
the snow melts (8)
The cabin has been her home for years, but lately, it’s started to feel like something else—a weight, maybe, or a tether. She wonders if Noah feels it too, or if he’s simply better at ignoring it. “I’m not saying I want to leave,” she says quickly, as if to reassure him.
By eric jameson lutz2 years ago in Poets
the snow melts (7)
He doesn’t say anything, just offers her a thermos of tea, which she takes with a small nod of thanks. They watch the creek together, the water glinting faintly in the weak afternoon light.
By eric jameson lutz2 years ago in Poets
the snow melts (2)
She knows that. Winter cannot last forever, no matter how much she’d like to preserve its silence. She squints up at the gray sky, shielding her eyes with one gloved hand. The sun is hidden, but its warmth is unmistakable.
By eric jameson lutz2 years ago in Poets
the snow melts (5)
She knows he’s right, at least on some level. But there’s a stubborn part of her that resists the idea of moving forward, of embracing the unknown. She’s always been more comfortable with what she can see and touch, with the tangible and the familiar.
By eric jameson lutz2 years ago in Poets
the snow melts (4)
She shrugs, not entirely sure how to respond. It’s true, though. There’s something about this time of year that stirs her in ways she doesn’t fully understand. It’s not just the end of winter; it’s the inevitability of change, the way everything feels so fragile, so fleeting.
By eric jameson lutz2 years ago in Poets
the snow melts (3)
He’s in his usual flannel and jeans, a mug of coffee steaming in one hand. His hair is mussed, and there’s a shadow of sleep still clinging to his features. “Couldn’t sleep,” she replies, her voice quiet.
By eric jameson lutz2 years ago in Poets