Hurled into the abyss,
A young orphan weeps.
His mother did not love him,
His father deeply sleeps.
Touched by all but ache
And groomed by all his pain,
His final words to heaven
Are “please don’t let it rain.”
But rain, it did, upon
A tragic, pitied head.
His hair was damp and dirty.
Mice crawled in his bed.
No one who cared enough
Did anything for him.
Tossed into the ocean
Not knowing how to swim.
While he’s sleeping lightly,
The stars, their shine stands guard.
And in their luminescence,
Darkness is then barred.
But when a man comes walking
Who understands the night,
Finds the boy in slumber
And does not do what’s right.
To scream is wasting voice,
To run is wasting juice.
His final point of action is
Accepting fate to truce.
Just like all the others
He sees which hell is real.
It’s not beneath the ground,
But the world which holds his heel.
The Artist's Promise
At some point in the far-off past, in an inquisitive town settled between moving slants and mumbling woods, there continued to be a young woman named Elara. Elara was known all through the town for her agreeableness and splendid smile, which could illuminate even the haziest days. She continued with a clear life, working at the town cake kitchen, where the scent of recently warmed bread and prepared products drifted through the air, drawing in people from miles around.
By Rony Sutradarabout 11 hours ago in Poets
Vale Perficientur
"My tears need a minute to find the edges of my face. If you'll please excuse me." The sarcasm stabbed into Juliana’s heart. Antonia glared at her from the pit of the Lyceum as her student fought to hold back tears that had nothing to do with the pain in her fingers. “You’re better than this, again.”
By Matthew Fromm4 days ago in Fiction
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