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Vianne Lior Mar 1
Flesh—latticed in hush,
pinions bloom along their span—
pearled ache, ascending.

Hello Poets,

I've noticed the 300 poet poem gaining some traction again,
And with all the new writers joining recently,
It shouldn't be hard to make stick.

But there'll still need be more,
When everyone on here has joined,
So I ask of you one thing,
Bring out all your artists wherever they may hide,
And lets make dream reality.
Earlier today the original post about this started gaining some traction, and I got 3 new submissions. I know it may not seem it, but I'm doing my best to get this thing together but it is nearly impossible to pioneer an online personality to the reach I nee it to go. So I ask you all my fellow poets, please forward this anywhere you can or to anyone you think is interested. You can reach me at hardisonabbott@gmail.com or private message on here. To submit for the project all you have to do is write up a line(s) of verse and email or private message it to me. You may submit more than one, but I can not guarantee all will be used. Thank you poets. 30/300
Vianne Lior Feb 28
Mornings licked amber,
wet, bright,
papaya pulp split in the grass,
rain still steaming off rooftops.

they came,
sway-backed, jewel-eyed,
weaving cobalt ribbons through the cricket fields,
feathers slick as oil spills.

I waited,
barefoot, rice pinched in small fingers,
not offering—inviting.

they took
beaks sharp,
eyes glinting like they carried whole summers behind them—
but they never left.

even when the rains came,
hard and urgent,
they stayed, hips swaying under silver sheets,
tails dragging through warm mud.

I thought they danced for me,
as if the whole monsoon belonged only to the girl watching,
silent, secret-spined,
hair curling at the nape,
too small to touch,
too quiet to call them by name,
but they saw me.

I know they did.

they crowned me in silence—
Princess of Puddles,
Keeper of Small Hungers.

somewhere between the serpent hunts,
the rain-slick pirouettes,
I learned how beauty moves,
how it takes without asking,
how it lives without needing to be seen.

they were never mine,
but I belonged to them,
to the fevered mornings,
to the blue-green shimmer folded beneath heavy air,
to the secret language only wild things speak

something wordless,
something that never leaves you.
Every morning, on my way to school, I passed by those peacocks—swaying through the fields, feathers damp with night rain—the first beautiful thing that ever made me feel chosen. Feeding them in my backyard became the quiet ritual of my childhood, and still remains one of my fondest memories.
  Feb 28 Vianne Lior
Clay Micallef
Watching the sun
cut into a new day
everything drenched
in pale colours
clouds move with
the dead of grey
I know a place
where a velvet moon
is thrown across the
soothing sea
where the spring
mornings are endless
where there are more
flowers than tall buildings
where the ocean breeze
blows salt on our skin
where the lavender
dances with the wind
we can dream forever
escape this ordinary life
I know a place …
Clay.M
  Feb 28 Vianne Lior
Lalit Kumar
She writes like the sky when it aches in the night,
soft words like raindrops, heavy with light.
Each verse a whisper, each line a sigh,
a thought unfinished, yet reaching the sky.

She mourns in echoes, in bruised, gentle hands,
finding beauty in loss she barely withstands.
A squirrel, a muse, a fleeting embrace,
love never dies—it just shifts its place.

She seeks the truth but walks through grey,
a heart once open, now kept at bay.
Yet, even in sorrow, she finds her hue,
a poet of storms, painting skies anew

She gave her light, soft and true,
but hands that took just let it bruise.
A heart once open, now worn and sore,
kindness bent, became the floor.

She sought truth, pure and bright,
only to face a blackened night.
“Why not believe?” destiny said,
but how could she, when all turned grey instead?

She once found love in a garden untamed,
flowers whispered, the evening sun flamed.
A hand in hers, a wish unspoken,
but even love can leave hearts broken.

And oh, the tiny soul she raised,
fur so soft, wild yet brave.
A bite for a wrong, a love that stayed,
until fate, so cruel, took her away.

She cried for a squirrel, screamed for a muse,
words felt heavy, nothing to use.
A poet lost, yet still she writes,
in soft, aching lines on rainy nights.

She loved, she lost, she still remains,
a poet who bleeds in ink-stained veins
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