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Prince eduard Jan 2019
The ashes fall
The grass wither
But my love for you
Shall never bitter

In front of the world
You're here with me
You've guided me
and so I never withdrew

As I walk
You established my steps
As I fly
I glide by your wings
And with You I swifts

But whenever I fall
You catch me with Your love and all
When I drown
You pushes me up with no frown

This journey is but 'like' a game
You move here and you risk there
But as I walk, If ever I fall
You smile then You pull
Yes! You're there and You rule!

You're a helping hand amidst all
I will praise you
I will love you
I will be grateful to You and will sing as the trumpets blow

For You're my Helper
How can I be more happier?
All of them might be against me
But my trust in You shall never leave me

It will all end
But my song for you shall never bend
And things might go wild
But my Lord, I'll be forever your bard!
A declaration of praise, gratitude, confirmation, worship and love
Lyn-Purcell Sep 2018
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 2018
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 2018
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
empire ants Jan 2018
"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.
Àŧùl Jul 2017
Apparently,
They have not read any good poems.
Or maybe,
They have not read any good sagas.
Probably,
They have just seen breakups.
Sadly.

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
Àŧùl 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
Àŧùl 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
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