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M Solav Apr 2022
De ces journées ternes où le ciel plat et infini
Plafonne sur nos vies, cantonnant nos humeurs,
Se dresse parfois un luisant et pâle trait à l'horizon,
Vaine rumeur lointaine d'avenirs moins sombres;

Mais à en fixer le contraste, cette strate nous surplombant
Se métamorphosera lentement en vierge ciel,
Clair comme l'azure de ces lentes et chaudes journées,
Et cette ligne lointaine, un rassurant paysage éloigné.
Prose de l'été 2012 convertie en structure poétique dix ans plus ****.

— Droits d'auteur © M. Solav —

Cette oeuvre ne peut être utilisée ni en partie ni dans son intégrité sans l'accord préalable de l'auteur. Veuillez s'il vous plaît contacter pour toute requête d'usage. Merci beaucoup.
Paul Idiaghe Sep 2020
the pillow hearts me redder than you do,
      crowns my dreams regal over murky lands,
from somber realms to the wake of blue;

into her clasp, my wingless wishes skew,
      as her cuddle bids two ears to my demands,
oh, the pillow hearts me redder than you do;

she seethes my mind, till dreams vapor thru’
          the sky, bodies pitching, wings for hands,
from somber realms to the wake of blue;

they gnaw unto the moon, shave its bare into
     mirrors, reflecting the truth, so I understand
that the pillow hearts me redder than you do;

in her cradle, dismal storms I can't subdue
      so she showers the sorrow out of my glands
from somber realms to the wake of blue;

and when my barrels empty, floods issue
   upon her, but she stems peace from her sands
for the pillow hearts me redder than you do,
from somber realms to the wake of blue.
Linn C Apr 2020
It's another night,
I decide to sit by the window side.
Eyes wander outside,
with a pen in hand and a blank paper on desk.
Eyes beg to sleep,
but something keeps me awake.

I listen to the sound of rain,
the only source of peace tonight.
The cold breeze touches my skin,
And retell their journey.
The netted curtails sway,
what a ghostly sight, it's grey.

The sky is soaked in somberness,
Clouds not letting the moonlight reach the window pane.
I remind myself, 'I'm fine and sane.'
But really,
I wonder what's darker;
the storm outside
or inside?

I lift my pen and scribble down a word or two,
Crumble it and throw it away.
I lack words to say,
Since the desire is too palpable to convey.

A desire to sink,
I want to free float after my last blink.
Kvothe Dec 2016
This bleak existence
of cisterns,
it peeks it's leaky head
above the gutters.
Shuttered **** tight.

Death is the meaning of life.

Sylvia knew it best,
resting under home,
bone heavy
and sleepless.
That jar of hers;
thirsts on monochrome
needless, overblown nerves.
Smash it!
Crush it!
Whack it!
Mush it!
Classic glassy mess.
Break it!
Fix it.
Tape it.
Place it.
Back now on your head.
Sara Kellie Sep 2019
A florist stands guard at the overgrown garden of broken stone teeth.
  Where a million flakes of silver and white covers neatly laid out boxes of bones.
  Small, separated audiences quietly chatting to themselves, unaware that no one can hear.
  Where their cold grey words drip from frozen blue lips on a falling mist of old sorrow.
  The trees once in full bloom appear dead, reflecting all life around.
  Where the butterflies and ladybirds used to play, just as the bones in the boxes did yesterday.
Those in attendance file out one by one. They peer left and then right, realising the flower lady has gone.
And it's on their way home as the time ticks on by, the realisation that
one day,
they too,
must die.

Poetry by Kaydee.
Notes of Mortality.
Ankita Gupta Apr 2019
Often, the sombre emerges
Rarely, the world shines

Often, the story is told
Rarely, it comes to life
Tara Apr 2019
With each grain of rice I think of you,
when they told you they would no longer give you food,
“Get out”,
“Get out”,
but there’s nowhere to go.

You fled home to save your children.
You left everything behind because of hope,
and here the world has left you,
in torment,
and alone.

I don’t know if you pray, but I pray for you,
each and every one of you.
Megan Parson Apr 2019
As he left for war,
with fear galore.
On the lonely streets,
She waited.

  As he grew weary of walk,
  weary of war,
  & cursed his fate,
  She waited.

     As he dreamt of her,
     each forlorn night,
     when cold birthed frostbite,
     She waited.

        When winter approached,
        & food scarce,
        By the dying embers,
        She waited.
          As spring drew near,
          The springs in her heart
          grew weak. On her death bed,
          She breathes her last.

              With his hand in hers,
               He waited.
On a sombre note.
chitragupta Mar 2019
You were the glacier
that fed the rivers in my eyes
You are the sea -
kissing the horizon with guile
You'll be nothing more
than a speck in the sky
Sorry for the stupid title
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