TaylorWent - Hello Poetry

Valley's low and mountains high Blotched with forests wheat and rye. Ivory canvas maps unfurl. Perfect skin makes not the girl.

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May 3

May 3, 2026 at 5:54 PM UTC

Skin and Hair

Valley's low and mountains high Blotched with forests wheat and rye. Ivory canvas maps unfurl. Perfect skin makes not the girl.

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Wild flowers in the field swaying east - then west. Their soft aromic tapestry is woven in her breast. Vibrancy in many hues, a swaying verdant quilt; mirroring her beauty when, upon them, she was spilt. A subtle sound, of melody, whispers through the leaves; sung by all the wild things, conducted by the trees. The wind performs a eulogy, it lays her down to rest. Heard by none but wild flowers growing in her chest.

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May 2

May 2, 2026 at 2:35 PM UTC

Wild Flowers

Wild flowers in the field swaying east - then west. Their soft aromic tapestry is woven in her breast. Vibrancy in many hues, a swaying verdant quilt; mirroring her beauty when, upon them, she was spilt. A subtle sound, of melody, whispers through the leaves; sung by all the wild things, conducted by the trees. The wind performs a eulogy, it lays her down to rest. Heard by none but wild flowers growing in her chest.

16

Eerie are the shadows stirred long side the edge of an old mans bed. Whispers wafting through the air the sirens singing words unsaid. And from the twisting, twirling wind A beauty known by only dead. A skull emerges from the dark the cloth was wrapping round the head. A dress made of a spiders silk the bones a bright pastel. The calming, cooling, quiet trill emerging from the shadows dwell. Then on a voice as soft cotton carried by a churches bell, the writer pens his last remarks and only they will speak his spell

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May 2

May 2, 2026 at 1:54 PM UTC

The Shadows Stirred

Eerie are the shadows stirred long side the edge of an old mans bed. Whispers wafting through the air the sirens singing words unsaid. And from the twisting, twirling wind A beauty known by only dead. A skull emerges from the dark the cloth was wrapping round the head. A dress made of a spiders silk the bones a bright pastel. The calming, cooling, quiet trill emerging from the shadows dwell. Then on a voice as soft cotton carried by a churches bell, the writer pens his last remarks and only they will speak his spell

16

The wailing wind of ocean tides is crying over windswept cliffs. Above, the waning moon resides, a casted shadow shifts. A weeping woman in the woods, bathed in pallid light. Somewhere on the english isles a banshee screams tonight. A silver comb among the reeds, tangling with ginger hair. Quiet tears upon the weeds, casts fog upon the air. Gentle footfalls on the grass, a figure clad in white. Somewhere on the english isles, a banshee screams tonight. Agony upon the breeze, a mother by the bed. Children stricken with disease, a daughter lying dead. The ginger woman cries at sea, her echoed wails of fright. For somewhere on the english isles, a banshee screams tonight.

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May 1

May 1, 2026 at 2:28 PM UTC

A Banshee Screams Tonight

The wailing wind of ocean tides is crying over windswept cliffs. Above, the waning moon resides, a casted shadow shifts. A weeping woman in the woods, bathed in pallid light. Somewhere on the english isles a banshee screams tonight. A silver comb among the reeds, tangling with ginger hair. Quiet tears upon the weeds, casts fog upon the air. Gentle footfalls on the grass, a figure clad in white. Somewhere on the english isles, a banshee screams tonight. Agony upon the breeze, a mother by the bed. Children stricken with disease, a daughter lying dead. The ginger woman cries at sea, her echoed wails of fright. For somewhere on the english isles, a banshee screams tonight.

24

I waltz around the prairie's edge through forests bathed in gold. Light catching my white summer dress while humming tunes and odes. The leaves a chorus in the wind the birds a choir singing. This poem carved upon my grave draped with lace and linens.

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May 1

May 1, 2026 at 2:10 PM UTC

Lace and Linens

I waltz around the prairie's edge through forests bathed in gold. Light catching my white summer dress while humming tunes and odes. The leaves a chorus in the wind the birds a choir singing. This poem carved upon my grave draped with lace and linens.

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