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m Jan 31
love love dove
the dove fell far
love love dove
burned to a char

craven craven raven
again rose a star
craven craven raven
picked at your scar

vain vain crane
full of empty words
vain vain crane
of the foolish birds

wail wail quail
a dying creed
well well quail
a time to bleed

a time that ends
the pain of past
a wound that mends
has been passed

i cannot lie
the pain i felt
with our goodbye
oh i could melt

i'm truly sorry
about the necromancer
the love which you gave
to the poor romancer

were you brought
back from the dead?
if so, then please
live and not dread

look on and not dread
the memories
that your mind must tread
got the lucky opportunity to read some poems i'd never seen by you
sorry i read them
i hope that the necromancy worked. maybe you can consider the necromancer the person who just helped you rise up and move forward...
i felt like writing a ****** poem what can i say
erin Oct 2018
The necromancer danced on her grave. The ground shook with every step the witch took, rumbling the ground beneath and making the corpse she had planted cling to the cool dirt for dear death. And then, the dirt began to give.

Sunlight burned on the girl’s blue skin, turning it a ghastly shade of porcelain like Wednesday Addams. She rolled over in her grave, and closed her eyes, refusing the inevitable fate of the undead. But her wings started flapping, and she rose up, the witches hand clawing into her back and dragging her back to life. And as the screeching of the megalomaniac forced her wide eyes open and the dried ancient blood away, she wished she were dead.
i'd appreciate criticism- i really want to improve my poetry game. if you can guess what this is about, i'd love to hear it.
A palace built with brittle bones;
so easily fractured. Yet in time
souls will walk upon the ash
under Pluto's careful watch.
Death will rise from its slumber
and surrender to the will
of the living no more.


A vault of riven dreams will open
and from within
the cry of corpses
will be heard.
born from a love of fantasy, i thought about what would happen if a necromancer could no longer control the dead he has summoned.
Emily Apr 2018
I'm in the business of misery
And business is good
Lying, crying eyes
And eyeing crying lies

Death and life
Life and death
Eternity in a wooden case
A final home

You give me some coin
And give me some qi
That's when eternity
Can become piety
Borne of forgiving alms

It's a sin
It's a beautiful evil
To bring back one's love
Back from behind The Veil

Sweet nightmares
And terrifying dreams
Rest well
Without rapture

With the singing of my song,
And the swing of staff,
The chant of my scriptures,
And my daemon in tow,
We can wish you
The very best

Because my business
Is your business
And your misery
Is my money

But it's worth every penny
I have a satisfaction guarantee
Just close your eyes
And hold your breath,
Then awake in something
Better than life
And stolen from death
AvengingPoet Sep 2014
All kept equal by four walls
and assignments kept for you to befall.

Short time, long time, quite time
with a chime.

The chime keeps them equal
and peaceful.

They finally found the chords that build high like a mountain
as they find access to the fountainhead.

The council tells them they are wrong
and that they don’t have long.

They have become a target of the nation
for simply wanting to become a sensation.

All they wanted was self-expression
but they could never possibly ask questions.

The council controls them with computerized cynics
provided by everyone who mimics.

They could have had their life blood spill over
instead they became a composer.

They took down the council with the power of revolution
as they deviate from the norm with solution.

The years of control finally ended
as the champion enters; alone.

he was far from classless.

took the discovery and wielded it.

gave them their freedom.

the true vision.

stood up to the powers that be.

The first in a series of poems about a character named Atlus. These were originally posted on my first account I had but I made a new one so...reposting it.
Second poem-

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