I reach out for the light Fingers reaching wide But am met with only night . My bones feel wound too tight All those fairytales, they lied
By Emily McGuff3 months ago in Poets
A little boat drifting on the grey, grey sea, Still holds its course though land, it draws it near. My heart creaks on for what could never be.
By Ella Bogdanova3 months ago in Poets
That room you used to wait in, I walk by, its quiet as thick with accumulated dust and age. There the door I should have opened is shut tight.
By Neli Ivanova3 months ago in Poets
Introduction I am unable to submit to a challenge from this backup account, but I can still write poetry and stories. This is an Ekphrastic Villanelle.
By Mike Singleton 💜 Mikeydred - EBA3 months ago in Poets
I keep the door you closed from fading away. The hallway holds its breath each sleepless night, Your absence is the ghost that bids me stay.
By LaRae Pynas3 months ago in Poets
My third eye glazes over As the world grows colder A smoldering mass destroying us Societal entropy has a hold of me All I want to do is write and bring joy
By Atomic Historian3 months ago in Poets
I keep returning to the field where once I yearned a drifting hush lies over all that waits to fall and hear the voice of the child who first had yearned
By Tim Carmichael3 months ago in Poets
Our love was born in gold, on mornings bathed in sun And died in blackest red beneath the moon I fought to keep my soul, but fate, it seems, has won.
By Rose Esposito3 months ago in Poets
The tree flares on, but you are not here in the light. The wind disturbs the leaves, and the hallway air turns cold. I keep replaying that night in the bulbs' bare light.
By Diane Foster3 months ago in Poets
I’m slipping—losing track of things you said I’ve never been a fan of long goodbyes Sometimes I think it’s better that you’re dead
By Paris Rosemont3 months ago in Poets
I'm sorry for what I said Your fears I cannot quell You lie silent in our bed ~ The thrill of the chase has fled Your beauty has lost its spell
By Lightning Bolt ⚡3 months ago in Poets
In the town San Miguel men are busy widowing. The hour knocks, the hammer drops, the padre rings his bell. . It’s a gamble, drinking from its sun-bleached well,
By Sean3 months ago in Poets
