By Isabella Rose
Sparkle in a loving embrace,
A present, a promise, a vow.
Semblance of a sacred soul,
Smoothed a rounded edge.
Soft and gentle in hands clasp,
A heartbeat, skip, and a smile.
Such worn, chipped, broken, breaks,
Settled with a kiss.
My one, my world, my living breath,
Calmed a tempest, internal strife.
She, of such angelic vision,
Levelled all my fears and pressed.
Warm embraces, cinnamon touch,
Glowing green, the grass we lay.
Planted seeds, of trees shadows,
Souls entwined, forever kept.
Placed at her feet, a once seldom stone,
Emptiness turns to the sun's sweet rays.
A missing piece of this puzzle, found,
Complete my edges, in silked-out love.
About the Creator
Isabella Rose
I am a dedicated author with a passion for fiction. I own a joint business with my amazingly talented co-writer and poet, Raven Black.
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More stories from Isabella Rose and writers in Poets and other communities.
Enigma of a Christmas Memory
Gazing into the misty embrace of the steamed-up bathroom mirror, his desolation weighed heavily upon his soul like an anchor dragging him down. His pallid skin mirrored the color of despair, and his bloodshot eyes told tales of countless sleepless nights. “Never again,” he whispered, the words etching themselves into the depths of his weary being.
By Isabella Rose6 months ago in Horror
Red Shelves
Death is a black hole. Think about it. A black hole is the corpse of a star, something once warm and bright, now come to the end of its life cycle. But some will argue that the cycle of life does not end with death. That death is merely another path we must walk once our bodies expire and our souls ascend. In that moment, when the fuel in the star’s chemical tank hits empty and the shiny matte coat explodes into supernova, the mass left behind – the corpse – becomes a black hole. We understand that, around such a vast cadaver, dimensions work a little differently in death to the way we’re used to in life. For example, light cannot escape the pull of a black hole when it hits the point of no return. That’s where it gets its colour. Space itself is contorted by a black hole. That’s where it gets its funny shape. Even time. Time slows right down the closer you get to it. The closer you get to a black hole. The closer you get to death.
By Matthew Curtis4 days ago in Humans
Comments (2)
This was so uplifting and powerful! Wonderful poem!
hi isabella ...can i talk to you