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The imagination is evidently pure; its here --
The ascent of ideas and valiant colours, and hysterics
In matrimony- on this delirious evening mood
(But he needs more paper to write)

We are familiar with The Great what's-his-name?
Ah - The Bard, out of the reserved shadows he would abrupt,
Create scenes of quiet saints turned to garrulous beings
(But he needs more paper to write)

On his tattered paper, he would write of idle witches, comedies, tragedies, of
The insanity of Love, the flaws of princes, fools, knights,  daughters, servant boys,
His work resembles that of festival with black and blue harlequins
(But he needs more paper to write)

The pity for Jesters, Twice as bloomed as the audience laughs at him!
What pessimism, what insanity, caused such a twist in this plot? they say
To understand the agony of the human spirit, where he writes inexhaustibly
(But he needs more paper to write)...

Lyn-Purcell Sep 12
Inkpot is golden
My quill is dipped and ready
For the bard's freeverse
Another free-verse is in the works! ^-^
This one is dedicated to a special bard.
Part one will hopefully be out tomorrow!
Let's DO this! *cracking fingers*
Lyn ***
Devin Ortiz Jul 26
I've written this story,
Thousands of times in my head.

But when it comes to pen and paper,
I run out of things to be said.

The bard, the mire, the sleuth
His lute, his fear, his truth.

Traveller through time,
His words chill the spine.

Oh, weaver of tales,
Hunter of lies.

Falter not to failure,
Or meet demise.

Songs will save thee,
Open all eyes to see.

Though the devil is in the details,
His chord, echoes on all that fails.
Without a second thought
She casts a shadow—
To reign down upon his lot,
Still waters; cold and shallow.
Struggling in her web he’s caught,
Left hanging in the gallows.
His heart—all but left to rot,
Her perception of him, fallow.

He tilled the fields of thought
With acre upon acre of roses.
Untying even the toughest knots
So loves door never closes.
He didn’t care if it were for naught,
An intrigue that never dozes,
But broke when he missed his shot,
A lonely bard in a field of roses.

She did not see him in such grace
To look past his imperfection,
Nor climbed the wall to see his place
Of fervent—lasting affection.
In a world of chatter he sat—
In eerie prolonged silence,
To love but not be loved back,
She drowned him in diffidence.
Vick Mandrake Feb 17
The bard feels all sung out
As the world around him sleeps
He is the only one left
In the right sense of mind
Who doesn't feel strung out

So he sets to write a merry tune
'pon his lute so fine
For come the morning
When the people awake
An old tune just won't shine

He tries and tries
Till the **** does crow
But sadly sunrise comes

The women start to knead their dough
To cook their breakfast buns

And the poor old Bard
In this moment did find
Of songs he wrote not a single one
And he now is out of time
polka Jan 1
"Why can't you shut up?"

Says the knight to the bard
For the knight knows agony
When the bard sings his song.

"Are you mad?" asks the lyricist, expression surprised.  
"Anyone would be joyed to hear their battles become rhyme."

But the knight wasn't happy, for he knew the truth              
That the painful deaths of many men hid behind the tune.
That the failure as a protector would haunt him in song
That sleepless nights without father, husband, or son is what he did wrong.

A pessimist others call him, a realist stands true
For reality is too harsh to be handled by a fool.
Äŧül Jul 2017
They have not read any good poems.
Or maybe,
They have not read any good sagas.
They have just seen breakups.

Literature - the written word,
It stays forever.
I love my "The 'Angel?' Series",
It is like a diamond.

And I love my story "7 Seconds",
It is my diadem.
My HP Poem #1613
©Atul Kaushal
Äŧül Jul 2017
Sometimes I feel jealous of all others,
They have their siblings and lovers,
But even I have my dear parents.
My HP Poem #1612
©Atul Kaushal
Äŧül Jun 2017
For some they might be brave,
The ones whose poetry is incomplete,
Without the necessary F-words.

But for me such poets are not poets,
They are the lost souls bent on it,
Abusing the readers no soul they save.

Sans any rhyme scheme or structure,
Do they not aimlessly scribble,
I wonder if they learnt F-words in vivo.
My HP Poem #1567
©Atul Kaushal
Vexren4000 Mar 2017
Dark age lands, dotted with castles, peasants, and pestilence.
The poets of times of old, revered as bards for their skill.
Instruments a rarity, the feeling to sing even rarer.
Poets and songsmiths sharing common muses.
The color of the endless sky, Trees stretching up and bunching in the forest.
The stories and fables were written in ancient edicts,
Tales and rumors of dragons and griffins,
Songs and sonnets dedicated to heroic knights.
Poets the mouthpiece of artistic expression.
Bards the hands of the instrument,
Allowing the item to sing its song.
And play its crystal clear hums,
Vibrating from its heavenly strings

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