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Robert Watson Jul 24
A monolithic sculpture stands upon a hill.
Ornate work of marble marks the artisan’s skill.
Clad as a knight of yore, with stony gaze held high.
Pilgrims travel from miles around to fall under his eye.

Epitome of courage, virtue, and respect
effused upon the villagers traits they should reflect.
Elements gnawed at the stone but failed to corrode
the manifold of lofty aims the knight would bestow.

Dark years beset the kingdom causing disarray-
Tyranny, vanity, and deceit led the people all astray.
Artisan's work above, a shining icon of probity.
A resolute bastion against the world’s impulsivity.

A day will come when the people reach distress;
crying out, they beseech the artisan’s redress,
but long has the craftsman been journeying far away
humbly allowing his handiwork, the message he conveys.
"Even darkness must pass. A new day will come. And when the sun shines it will shine out the clearer." - (Samwise) Peter Jackson.
Sonorant Jul 19
Banished before thon barren plains,
Where treacherous tears abstain
Fare. Fair is the waste,
The impurity of deep, decrepit weeds.
And dage brings fruit then touched
Only by their ravens of rot.
May they paint thine tainted stave
In golden garth and lull the lark;
“Mine, Sweet babe,
Robbed of cradle
Readied for ritual.
Mine, Sweet babe,
Gore masked black
Within the crimson bath.”
Lacen their throats, the gullets that gloat!
Lest langes of thorns, wrap the bairn sworn.
Death breeds glore o’er luid nights
Beldam rise belles in wicked repel.
Round the funeral pyre.
Diesel Mar 11
Loud Wind! Loud Wind! Why do you fie?
What troubles thou in 'neath night's sun?
What anger breeds that cause reply
Of trash bag bins and branches flung?
What son'rous winds that may her cry
Leaf-tears hung by moon-tide wind?

Sylvan weeps has Hephaestus yield;
Evil tunes of nature's dial:
Loudest Wind, what bellows you wield?
When stolen from the fire child?
Loud Wind, what sonnets will thy seal?
With mountain breaths of winter deep?

And other houses shall delight
Unpleasant shakings of their rooms:
Perhaps, Loud Wind, this waning night
May ever proud your selfish booms;
Fie! Wake all men that lay tonight!
Loud Wind, Loud Wind, fie this night moon!
Diesel Feb 14
A penny for a beauty!
I'll sing it hither thee:

I'll sing alive a beauty
And sing it ever be:

And a penny and this beauty
And my voice in mind them:

Now sing this ready evening
so prithee listen then:

Leave two pennies by the boulder
And a penny you shall earn,

Drop a penny by his shoulder
And a penny he returns.

Give a penny to your pleasure,
Let the pleasure spread like seeds:

But a penny my endeavor,
A penny ask of me!
Hermes Varini Jan 23
A Lone Walker, Ah!
Intae Murky Night
Every wound by-gone
New Blood o’ mine fuelin’,
Lang the Hour,
Unfathomable, unearthly,
Verra Fire wearin’,
Burnan Gore o’ mine
Awa, awa spilled!
Soil o’ Alabaster gravin’,
An’ abön, lo! a Presence yirr,
Near-hand flashin’,
Rumblin’, tremblin’,
Like a Rhodium-Demon
An’ a Mirror-Vision broo!
O’ Red Gore full an’ pride!
Great Rowth ragin’!
Human no longer!
Wi’ Veins o’ Flame imbued,
My awn dearest!
Athwart my Solitary Gait
As a Storm-Blast fallin’,
A composition of mine suggesting an enigma. "Ah" is Scottish for "I". A most potent semiotic variant shall follow. I wrote VEXILLA FULMINIS PRODEUNT to mean "The Banners of the Lightning issue forth". It is indicated that the narrator cannot die, for he possesses veins imbued with incorruptible Heraclitean Fire.
Hermes Varini Oct 2020
Och! downe to howch,
Ye all swithe hame ***!
Waefu’, waefu’ Ah say,
Wi’ burr-thistle’s gowlin’ Storne
Frae my verra, verra Ah say,
Iron-Curse o’er ye.
A storm in medieval Scotland, before the dreary ruins of a forgotten tower.
Anais Vionet Jun 2020
Thou hast my love and I desire thine.
Dost thou know or knowing, care?
I keep the nymph's lonely station.

But my impatience grows savage.

If thou carest not, my love
the stars will keep their motion
flowers will still need water
I will learn stillness
the feeling will rust
a short, free verse, romantic love poem about a teen crush, hopes and realities - using a purposeful, archaic, "throw back" vocabulary.
Amara Selraei Feb 2020
O little bird, why dost thou flit so,
Filling the skies with they song of woe?

Knowest thou not that a storm doth come?
Hearest thou not the thunder’s celestial drum?

It thrashes and thrums with such terrible din,
Wresting away thy song as though t’was but a sin.

Fly, little bird, fly away swift and true,
‘Til the heavens are once again swathed only in blue.
Tina RSH Jan 2020
Clink clink clink! Out thou comest little genie
Broken is mine heart, not one time but three
So grant me three a wish and may that be
Fly aloft and take these ****** tears with thee

Mine keen eyes captured by the hands of doom
guts wrenched in light of mephistopheles' gloom
A dark solo rider in hue of a hero assumed
Beguiled the young heart is now encaged, entombed

Lo! Take the glass heart and travel afar
Drop it where hungry vultures and eagles are
Pour my light into his blackness like a shining star
Pour it to the end of his every remaining cigar

seek me then in the lands of madness within
Resting as the corpse bride I always have been
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