Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Gem Palomar Sep 8
You can build up a palace in me with your touch and your tongue.

But no, not the big and massive kind of palace with many different alleyways.

No, you did not create a palace in me that is made up of silver and gold,

nor a palace with glistening windows and tulip-filled gardens.

You have created in me a palace with empty halls and blank walls, so empty, not even a voice would echo. No glistening windows, but instead it is cracked and has shards of broken glasses on the floor to show how broken I am. No tulip-filled gardens to soothe and satisfy your soul. Only thorns, vines, and I, still tangled in the idea that you would come back.

Only hate, regret, and pain is in here within the abandoned palace where you once stayed

...and left.
Yanamari Sep 3
Running my fingers
Along the frozen walls,
A feeling that lingers;
To a house, its doors.
I stare out at the melting
Burning Sun
A fire too intense;
At its distance,
On my skin, a warmth almost a hum.

The Sun is too close, too close

Foreign is the feeling of the hum,
Dancing on my skin,
Never delving deeper some.
My mind can only wonder,
Sunlust echoing in my gaze as I
Cross my legs and enjoy
The cold while basking in the Sun.
Neither overly warm
Nor am I frozen to the touch;
I have faded into the cold
And currently, I have no plan
Nor rush.
Anastasia Aug 28
We stood
In our kingdom
Atop of it's roof
Our palace of dirt
Simply me and you
You grab my hand
"Do you trust me?"
I started to think
That maybe you love me
You said
At first I was scared
But seeing you there
Standing in the sun
Holding my hand
I thought you might be the one
I let myself fall
But you held on
So I thought I would, too
There was a pearl Palace
In a land so far away
They said it glowed at midnight
And sparkled in the day
In the pearl Palace
A lovely princess stayed.

She walked The Halls a'dreamin
Of a handsome man
To take her from the golden Halls
Of that foreign land
But her company was peacocks
She didn't understand.

A Wizard's spell had captured her
To keep her in that place
Where no one kept her company
Tears flowed down her face
She was kept quite comfortably
In her Silk and Lace.

She knew the great volcano
Would erupt for miles and miles
If she left the Pearl Palace
Where she was kept in style
And so she stayed there all alone
A sad and lonely child.

Catherine Jarvis
Another poem for the book which my friend Steve is illustrating. I wish you could see this visual ... it's absolutely beautiful!
B D Caissie Aug 9
Is one able to yearn
When burned
Having never learned
To wait ones turn

So sojourn...

I’ve a right to bale
When lovers fail
Tucked is my tail
Leaving a paper trail

Unanswered mail...

I look for solace
My formidable edifice
On the edge of malice
Up in my palace

Blunt cowardice...

So in conclusion
This web of delusion
Self-inflicted confusion
My mental pollution

Sentenced seclusion...
s Willow Jan 8
Paleness on ex-lover’s face,
Our impassable fate brought.
In madness,
He’s missing from his holy palace.
Pyrrha Oct 2018
You are my sanctuary
I find shelter in your words
I feel safe in your embrace

You are my circus
I find mischief in your eyes
I feel out of control in your presence

You are my palace
I find elegance to your stride
I feel blown back by every room

You are my jewel
I find myself jealous of your beauty
I feel you sparkle with life

You are my everything and more
I find more reasons to love you ignite
I feel them spark with everyday
Faded gilding, rubbed through to cracking, flaking wood.
A glamour of ages, sliding, flies to the breeze.

The little bird perches on a once-fine moulding;
Head tilted, one bright eye turned towards the mantle
where a half-blind mercurised mirror barely reflects
an army of creeping vines, consuming naked angels
and the God of this house.

Our hero’s velvets are ruined, dripping and eaten through.
Where riches have lived, decay succeeds.
Nature’s velvets; opulent mosses and emerald lichens
are devouring damask
and smoothing over marbled hardness.

The bird listens for footsteps.
The lady would scatter crumbs on the windowsill
and he would flutter, unafraid,
to peck at her sweet feast.

Once, she drew him.
Fine-lining passerine delicacy,
her pencils fetched him,
and bestowed him an artist’s nobility.
He turned, this way and that,
flashing gold-touched wings,
miming a duchess snapping open a fan.

She’s gone now,
and so have the crumbs.
The bird senses no sugar on the sill,
nor the faintest reminiscence
of lavender perfume, glittering as star bursts
at the hollow of her throat.

He sings regardless,
a mournful beauty
longing to return to a glorious, lustful age,
where light refracted in cut crystal,
danced upon frescoes
and illuminated the **** –
- to render them enchanting.

He swoops to dance on the mantle,
answered by the mirror
and sits a while, preening.

The gentlemen and ladies are gone forever.
Ejected from history to echo as ghosts of fancy and excess,
undeserving of remembrance or pity.

The bird will never forget.
And knots up secrets
kept tightly in his breast,
committed to his tiny, fierce heart.
The Goldfinch is my favourite bird - both owing to its numerous appearances in Renaissance art and as the silent protagonist in Donna Tartt's book bearing its name.
Next page