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GraciexJones Jun 4
The Queen sat alone in her throne,
Drapes drawn across the window,
Sputtering candle flame by her side,
She sat there holding her heart in her hand,
Looking down she could see the veins are bruised
The colours red and blue had turned into a pale complexion,
Tears fell down her cheeks,
She starred up to see a red tapestries hanging above her bed,
The design on the tapestries was beautiful scenery,

The Queen remembered when she received the tapestries,
It was a gift from a sailor of the sea,
Each month he would come knocking on her door,
Sit down by her thrown and tell her of his adventures,
The Queen longed for those stories from the Sailor,
As she was unable to leave her castle to see the beautiful lands,

One day,
The Sailor had left her a gift,
He told her he would be going for a long trip,
He may not return for a while,
Queen took a deep breathe,
As she knew this might be the last time,
The Sailor insisted for the Queen to look at the tapestries,
To remind her of how beautiful the world can be
Lyn-Purcell Jul 2020

Love is a woven dichotomy

The sweetest of fruits and most merciless of storms

On the heart of each palm, pain-salted tears

we all have, share and hold

Under the and sun-kissed days

and moon-soul nights

We choose to maintain our stories

while fighting against the tyranny of life

and its harsh game of glass chess

For which none of us can truly escape

but play to soon become skilled against

Strife's master

So with scarred skin and wounded hearts,

We trudge through rings of Hell

for the mere test of Heaven on Earth

The ever beautiful dichotomy of love is something I always tend to ponder...
Stay safe and well, everyone!
Much love,
Lyn x
Dream Fisher Jan 2020
I wanted to paint my soul
So I dunked both my arms into blue and green
And threw them onto the canvas
As the liquid splattered, light gathered
Out of the sheet and danced the room,
Only giving me its sight then zoomed
Back into the place it had come.
Before it dried, I spread my hand across,
Letting the bright colors smear and run.

I drew pencil lines around the fine nothingness
But they insisted to create, instead, a bridge
From one side to the other, there I laid,
Swearing I could feel wind, in the light,
The middle of the bridge swayed
Over the sea of blue and meeting in green
Magically moving at that in between.

Cutting my hand, not too deep,
I let myself drip and the liquid creeped
Into the work that was myself,
Disappearing among the colors I felt.
This was me, a soul, puncturing the middle,
Making myself whole.
Pagan Paul Jun 2019
Walk through the silence
of a lonely tapestry,
its mute single thread
trying to Canute the night,
knowing it must ride the Moon
to dance with the stars.
Blood red ink.
Ink red blood.
Across pages it falls,
words of needlepoint pain
screaming at the audience,
the Moon has been deflowered
and the stars dance alone.
Cedar wood smoke perfumes
the stench of lethargy,
from an open log fire
throwing flickers of hopeful light,
flame fingers burn the Moon
as the stars cry for the weaver.

© Pagan Paul (02/06/19)
6th poem in Fool's diary series.
Salmabanu Hatim Apr 2019
Here sits a poet,
A constellation  of thoughts,
A colourful sunset of rhythms,
Meteors of rhymes.
With pen in hand, by lamplight,
Only a poet knows
to create order from chaos,
His every word on paper flows,
Spinning dreams, emotions and wishes,
Whence the threads of figure of speech weaves,
A never-ending  tapestry of  poems.
Choreographing each stanza to be awesome,
Dancing over the meter,
Painting each picture to better,
The character,merit and existence,
Of what each poem means.
Ylzm Apr 2019
Stitched from pieces of Truth
Making a tapestry of a Lie
The signature handiwork
Of the Father of Lies

To which the wicked proudly cling
As vindication and justification
To beat the Truth
To submit to the Lie
substantial breakable quiet, the moon
shimmers above, a great beacon of tranquility
the night whispers a hidden new tune
and hides its face in an attempt at humility
quickly the sound is gone too soon
a misty white evening
with boats on the bay
the water churning, until it is gray
an empty stillness weaving
the tapestry of the night
a multitude of dreams, and quiet hearts
the living hold breath, at the magnificent sight
because of the silence, the mind can't help but spark
we are a simple people, it is with the absence of sound
Our scholars and our work, have become renowned
in the beginning, there was silence and today there still is,
we cannot live without the quiet, unbearable though it is.
I don't know what this is honestly.
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