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After I saw her, I knew she was the one.Β 
I knew, oh I knew well about her

She breathed as aΒ beingΒ I wanted to preserve in my art.Β 
She possessed power over me that summoned me without surrender.

I'd go mad without her;
I want to kiss her beauty so well,Β 

Only my lips can entertain a supple soul like hers,Β 
DesperateΒ for someone like me.

I have acquired dreams of planting kisses,Β 
Holding her delicately in my arms as I strum her hair.

I want to love her, making her my statue.
This poem's part of a story I'm currently working on.
Ema Jun 2021
the snail shells lie empty
they dried up and burnt
on the longest day
while limestone bathing lovers
chipped by fleshy hands
with great intention
don’t miss slimy snails

they are still in embrace
in stony waves
stopped and gazing
the light empties even
on the longest day
lovers and shells alike
eventually take storms
on their cheeks
LC Apr 2021
a statue quietly lurks
in the corner of my mind,
waiting until all is calm.
when the dark shroud
falls over the blue sky,
the statue comes to life
as a vicious, fang-bearing,
red-eyed, gnarly demon.
the demon pulls a dream apart
with its long, pointy claws,
injecting the shreds with poison
until they tangle up in each other
to become a tight, infectious knot
that can only be untangled...by waking up.
#escapril day 18!
Eli Za Jan 2021
The statue of a woman's
individuality

Carved in liberty,
sold in solidarity

If I can't find love
And give the expected
sacrifice

What's my price,
my significance?
Lewis Sep 2020
I walk in beauty
As if Venus has bestowed her wings on my back.
Her frolicked hair in oil paint
perhaps I am her redemption?
To seek both answer and truth
In an age without stone cut statues?

But I do not resemble the sliced abdomen of statues
and I am not gilded in beauty
nor do I tell the perfect truth.
I tend to look back,
craving redemption
illustrated in paint

My fingers tremble in paint
frozen at the canvas like a statue.
There is no point in a redemption
when I cannot see beauty.
So I learn that I will not be back
until I have learnt the truth.

And when I have learnt this truth,
so stark as oil paint,
I must make the decision to come back.
Of course I will change, for I am not a statue,
but I will be shrouded in my own beauty
for Venus will get her redemption.
Michael R Burch Mar 2020
Mother of Cowards
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

So unlike the brazen giant of Greek fame
With conquering limbs astride from land to land,
Spread-eagled, showering gold, a strumpet stands:
A much-used trollop with a torch, whose flame
Has long since been extinguished. And her name?
"Mother of Cowards!" From her enervate hand
Soft ash descends. Her furtive eyes demand
Allegiance to her ****'s repulsive game.

"Keep, ancient lands, your wretched poor!" cries she
With scarlet lips. "Give me your hale, your whole,
Your huddled tycoons, yearning to be pleased!
The wretched refuse of your toilet hole?
Oh, never send one unwashed child to me!
I await Trump's pleasure by the gilded bowl!"

NOTE: My sonnet is a parody of the famous poem "The New Colossus" written about the Statue of Liberty by Emma Lazarus. Keywords/Tags: America, American history, liberty, United States, Emma Lazarus, The New Colossus, Statue of Liberty, Lady Liberty, torch, freedom, beacon, lamp, light, door, golden door, liberty, immigrants, immigration, refuse, homeless, poor, rich, discrimination, huddled masses, yearning, breath free, giant, fame, free, freedom of speech, independence day, New York, patriotic
William Marr Feb 2020
standing like this
(they call it immortality)
with a frozen smile and ponderous medals
is more barbaric
than lying in state
with a red rose on my chest

at dawn, two lovers awakened at my feet
and began reciting the beautiful engraved lies
between kisses and laughs
there was a sharp pain in my chest
at the very spot where the first ray of light hit
at the very spot where they pinned the red rose
Dani Feb 2020
Sometimes when I close my eyes I swear I can see you
Someone that makes my heart beat wildly
That gives me shivers of warmth and love down my spine
But all I have ever witnessed
Has been in my mind's eyes
I want to believe you are real
Not just a figment of my lonely imagination
I want to believe you are out there
Picturing me in your mind
Filled with wonder seeing my smile and my eyes
Yet I somehow feel you are my Pygmalion
A stone cold picturesque image of longing
That I cling onto in the long dark nights
Waiting for the gods above to come down
And move your stone cold visage of my mind
Into the soft warm flesh of reality
I want to say I look forward to meeting you
And I hope one day I do
And I will sing my praises up to the sky
Up to the gods
Who granted me my greatest joy
My greatest creation
My Pygmalion
There's a hopeless romantic in me please help
Julie Grenness Sep 2019
I stand here, a plaster saint,
Somewhere else, I'd be a haint,
A ghost of a distant century,
But I'm a symbol of Christianity,
Or of another faith, you see,
People come to worship with me,
I present to them a gift of faith,
All who pray for blessed grace,
No sacred space is ever empty,
The divine is here with you and me,
We're all part of this mystery.............
Feedback welcome.
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