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LC Apr 4
the dark limb splits the moon
from the expansive, pitch-black sky.
at a distance, we paint it
as a glowing, surface level circle
that we place our wishes onto.
we never listen to it in return,
so the limb fiercely protects
the whispers of the moon.
Escapril Day 3! The prompt was "limbs." I used the astronomical definition of limb, which was "the edge of a celestial object." This poem took some twists and turns, and this is where it ended up.
Savio Fonseca Oct 2021
With Her Lipstick on My Collar,
and My Kisses on Her Soul.
A restless moving Body,
was eagerly shooting it's Goal.
My Desires were on Fire,
waiting to be Burnt.
I kept changing positions,
so all Her lessons.....She Learnt.
It was Our weekend Romance,
the Moon was no where in Sight.
All Our clothes were scattered,
in a room which had no Light.
With all Our Chocolate Fantasies
and a Butter Scotch full of Dreams.
The Night passed away silently
with Whispers, Moans and  Screams.
Raven Feels Jun 2021
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, dreams and dreams will be remembered:)


a nightmare or a dream???
the day you wrote a poem to me
titles stumbled on the versus our desires declared
gone in the drop of a lit matched flare
guess that love will remember us
stared promises tangled even the unspoken trust
i think of the time of all lasts
hourglass sand stolen so fast
nonsense traffic faints
in the path of the cuts this hurt paints
bruises in surrender to the knife
like when two plus two makes five
Venus on the window pane
whispering to others about the ****** stain
till this day

                                                                       ------ravenfeels
Cardboard-Jones May 2021
I hear whispers in my ear.
They're tempting me, they're always here.
They're haunting me.
They're stalking me.
The shadows move once they speak.
I don't know what they want from me.
They're taunting me.

Moon beams shatter the sky.
Bring me the light.
Keep me alive.
I'm not alright.
They have arrived.
Get me through the night.
The moon waits for the poet
to hear its lullaby
and the sun also cares
to what it whispers.
Wet
Drip, drip, drip, a constant rhythm as the raindrops collided against her umbrella, protecting her like a knight, his enemies small but many as she goes about her day carrying with her a bouquet of flowers picked along her travels whispering to herself.

It's the details she wishes to rope in and hold forever as she examined the wet spot on this particular petal of her freshly picked bouquet, magnifying all the perfect imperfection, because she sees herself, and there's beauty in that too.
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