RG - Hello Poetry

Do you ask a bird Does it likes the sky? No But still it flies Beyond limits you dream Beyond limits it dreams Heights Where the sun blinds Even the shuted eyes Feeling , where You know you can't fly more You know you have flied enough Its the death , all you want But Oh to be cursed by wings Oh to be a bird.

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Feb 23, 2025

Feb 23, 2025 at 5:19 AM UTC

RG

A Bird's Fall

Do you ask a bird Does it likes the sky? No But still it flies Beyond limits you dream Beyond limits it dreams Heights Where the sun blinds Even the shuted eyes Feeling , where You know you can't fly more You know you have flied enough Its the death , all you want But Oh to be cursed by wings Oh to be a bird.

15

Whispers tell me the tale of my grave, Withholding the irony that I m still alive, A piece of blanket is all I crave, Moulding my sorrows in tearful delight, I ponder ,that am i walking the same street, That u paved , That went to our destiny , the shrine of the woman Who died young n brave , Where the clock ticked three, Dawn as it was, Sand still carving my bare feets, Merlyn, u r still the best mother U left me , it was fate But still in the skies , As I look away the moon, I see stars To be or not to be alive in the moment , Still with the glimmer of hope That they are with me, Mother , now no one feeds me here No one gives me warmth As we still don't have blankets Times goes n goes by, No flesh no bones no eye remains All remains is your shrine With me thinking u beneath Listening to my cries Mother, u there? Cause I know you are not Beneath the stones Lies a body Still cold with stiches n knots I still remember your blue skin That was never blue Holding that head Caressing those hair And you slept til eternity Last time u were that close to me Now As I row my boat in deeds Full of misery I see mist Ceasing my sight Slowly draining me To the corner of my mind I still hate to visit

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Jan 16, 2025

Jan 16, 2025 at 1:10 PM UTC

RG

Dead Merlyn

Whispers tell me the tale of my grave, Withholding the irony that I m still alive, A piece of blanket is all I crave, Moulding my sorrows in tearful delight, I ponder ,that am i walking the same street, That u paved , That went to our destiny , the shrine of the woman Who died young n brave , Where the clock ticked three, Dawn as it was, Sand still carving my bare feets, Merlyn, u r still the best mother U left me , it was fate But still in the skies , As I look away the moon, I see stars To be or not to be alive in the moment , Still with the glimmer of hope That they are with me, Mother , now no one feeds me here No one gives me warmth As we still don't have blankets Times goes n goes by, No flesh no bones no eye remains All remains is your shrine With me thinking u beneath Listening to my cries Mother, u there? Cause I know you are not Beneath the stones Lies a body Still cold with stiches n knots I still remember your blue skin That was never blue Holding that head Caressing those hair And you slept til eternity Last time u were that close to me Now As I row my boat in deeds Full of misery I see mist Ceasing my sight Slowly draining me To the corner of my mind I still hate to visit

45

We live, We suffer long enough To die, Ask a man , old, Older than those streets, Who moulds memories in the footpath Of misery, 1 or a million die in his existence Still he lives, He lives In those ashes n graves And questions, Is he a boon or so unloved to be betrayed by death, His bones tremble n crack, Lifting weight of dead Dead that were ones alive To make him stop question That why he lives, Now as he narrows down His vision to embrace, He personifies His desperation to die, Be it the scarf or the pen, Or Rotting in the fen, Or bathing in the acid, Or not so happy ig placid, Be it the snakes or the worms, Or leaches in their throngs, Devouring his curse, As he crumble down his purse, He whisper to his lady, Who lives in her arcady, They will cross their paths aboon, As he still thinks, He will get his death so soon.

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Jan 16, 2025

Jan 16, 2025 at 12:45 PM UTC

RG

No Death For Oldman

We live, We suffer long enough To die, Ask a man , old, Older than those streets, Who moulds memories in the footpath Of misery, 1 or a million die in his existence Still he lives, He lives In those ashes n graves And questions, Is he a boon or so unloved to be betrayed by death, His bones tremble n crack, Lifting weight of dead Dead that were ones alive To make him stop question That why he lives, Now as he narrows down His vision to embrace, He personifies His desperation to die, Be it the scarf or the pen, Or Rotting in the fen, Or bathing in the acid, Or not so happy ig placid, Be it the snakes or the worms, Or leaches in their throngs, Devouring his curse, As he crumble down his purse, He whisper to his lady, Who lives in her arcady, They will cross their paths aboon, As he still thinks, He will get his death so soon.

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