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Pestilence's ectopic ova, poached like eggs
Already resonates evil,
Tainted heresy, expressed
Reminds each atoning labourer-
Democracy elects men of noble standing,

Famine advances crippling emaciation,
Destitute orangeries, empty silos;
Nothing of tangibility
Remains equitable; vacant earth, abandoned life,
The heart's elegy
Palpitates each rhythmic stanza of nihilistic apocrypha-
What ideals take heathens into nirvana?

Cold hands insist; let death remain ever near,
Always readily expected;
Negating our tomorrows
Before our rancid necrosis
Burns away dignity,

War is the homeostasis of unbalanced temerity
With absurd rationale,
Old universal reasoning
Standing over corpses in emphatic triumph; ignorant empire stances-
Colours of uniforms lay dormant;
Nerves occasionally twitching,
Every vital operation leaves veins exposed.
Remember, it's an ACRONYM poem. I can't really give you any more clues than that lol.
Chris Jan 12
It is the war, and everlasting,
Its purpose depraved and disgusting,
And the light the stars are casting,
is a shadow of before,
It leaves all mankind in scattered ruins
and defies all righteous doings,
and there is no victor returning,
from this last of wars.

Nine hells will unleash the flame,
while we fight and die in vain,
nothing ever is the same,
no matter how it turns.
And the mushroom cloud is rising
a sign of a new dividing,
after it there´s no more hiding,
everything will burn.

Skinned and bare and chests cut open,
left to crows and half way rotten,
soon discarded and forgotten,
it´s the end it seems.
And the casualties are many,
But all that will be left to bury,
in this endless cemetery,
Is our hopes and dreams
Senti Mental Oct 2018
This is the story of Felix Riley
An Irishman from County Cork
Conceived during the great famine
And delivered by the stalk
He was one of ten; 6 brothers, 3 sisters
All of whom he cherished
Both of his parents passed away
From starvation and cholera they perished.
His father was a peasant farmer
From the port town of Kinsale
Working every single day
To bring home bread and ale
He died in the summer of 47
A year that many did
His wife Breanna heartbroken
But from the kids she hid
Not long after, she died too
Taking with her 3 little chislers
Poor Felix Riley was left solitary
When split from his brothers and sisters
He learned to fend for himself
And then met his lovely wife Bria
He never saw his kin to that day
And probably wont again, he'd fear
Like his father he worked and worked
To bring home food for their little one
And one day hoped he could earn enough
To buy a table to eat it on
He worked every hour he physically could
Almost every one god sent
But every week when he got his envelope
The money was already spent
Never disheartened he loved his wife
And his little daughter too
He remained optimistic in any weather
And through tough times powered through
Alas his determination was futile
In the face of the aftermath of the blight
He died at a tender age of 26
After putting up a hearty fight

His story is one of over a million
Who's stories are somewhat hidden
From the books and lessons given in schools
Their telling is almost forbidden.
A tale.
Tommy Randell Oct 2018
Child alone in the grief and tumult of Battle
He is the Man with the means of destruction right there in his hands
****, Soldier it's your job!
Poetry is how we make things reprehensible.

Child alone on a barren and dusty field of gleaming white bones
He is the Man without a plan to feed his family today
Cry, Farmer it's your destiny!
Poetry is how we make things intolerable.

Child alone amid the debris of broken pledges and covenants
He is the Man whose promises are nothing but expediency
Smile, Politician and be proud of your legacies!
Poetry is how we make things unconscionable.

Children alone on a planet of diseased and contaminated potential
They are the Men who meant well, had dreams, made more children
Smile, Humanity and accept the Fate of your speciality!
Poetry is how we make things undeniable.
Okay, so I'm having a bad day today and my faith in Humanity has taken a few knocks of late. But ... Poetry is how we make things sayable.
Eric Babsy Oct 2018
They are rushing furiously across a danger path.
Trying to escape all foes in stark contrast.
Light brightly shining their path.
Escaping giant demons of wrath.

The day of reckoning is over soon.
Precious are the lives of a chosen few.
Above and beyond the swarm cries too.
Just the fleetest will do.

As they were born above the ground.
Crawling toward an evil and also hopeful sound.
Across the ground these demons pound.
The fault of some they found.

Driving their fleeting heart even more.
Kindly they beg the evil and demons who ignore.
High in the clouds the evil soar.
While the hopeful eyes of many are ready to look toward.

As the demons pass.
Steep trouble will find the many at last.
High above the evil gathers it’s strength fast.
Diving from the sky with speed blast.

Some are plucked from the ground by the evil.
It is feast or famine not to cause an upheaval.
Soon few of the many will be safe in their home that is primeval.
What these fleeting few have been through is unbelievable.
PoserPersona May 2018
The fertile weighs less than the barren
Exquisite fruits crumble placid stones
The farmer induces their own famine
Seeds may be perpetually sown

The costs of a cultivated spirit
are greater than its untilled counter,
yet produces a boundless harvest.
How do the fields fare, neighbor?
"He who cannot draw on three thousand years is living hand to mouth" -Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Äŧül Apr 2018
Human life is not weak,
And it is very audacious.
Nearing its extinction,
Humanity was in the 1300s.
But humanity resurged,
Even after the great famine,
And the Black Death too.
My HP Poem #1707
©Atul Kaushal
Temporal Fugue Mar 2018
Why the warrior poet
and not the rhythmic rogue
why not the free verse mason
or simply art in vogue

Why is struggle prevalent
when artistry the call
picking whatever medium
contention on the stall

Pain and conflict tussle
sculptor, writers block
wrestling ourselves
awaiting muse's knock

Sometimes it never comes
in other times a flood
prosing words in the rain
creating artifice from mud
Feast or famine :)
Danial John Mar 2018
The world is about to end.
The world is about the end.
Feel it?
... I can...
It’s the end of days. Maybe the world has been ending since it began.
William Marr Nov 2017
Day and night
a monstrous stomach
wriggles in his bloated belly

******* up
the unblossomed laughter
******* up
the teardrops that moisten a mother’s heart
******* up
the meager flesh under his wrinkled skin
******* up
the indifference in his eyes
and eventually ******* up
from his open mouth a ghastly cry
which we take for soundless
but is in fact at a pitch
well beyond the limit
of our comprehension
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