Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
Tags
#landscapepoetry
Azure silhouettes peaked against the horizon Born from the sky’s last testament Of rays beaming and accentuating The subtle curves and vestments That expressed their innate beauty In the form of love with contentment As her eyes soaked in the sight Azure bled to crimson at the day's Dying light Yet the fight is far from over As she battled up the climbs With wars and steps aplenty Shared with her heart and mind It is there That the endless foothills roll A memory of togetherness Unafraid to unfold In the face of freedom unburdened Her story is now hers to hold For she is azure like the sky And I, The crimson before the night Together we paint a mountain sunset With a love that will never die
0
Apr 28
Apr 28, 2026 at 1:58 PM UTC
LRThompson
Mountain Sunset
Azure silhouettes peaked against the horizon Born from the sky’s last testament Of rays beaming and accentuating The subtle curves and vestments That expressed their innate beauty In the form of love with contentment As her eyes soaked in the sight Azure bled to crimson at the day's Dying light Yet the fight is far from over As she battled up the climbs With wars and steps aplenty Shared with her heart and mind It is there That the endless foothills roll A memory of togetherness Unafraid to unfold In the face of freedom unburdened Her story is now hers to hold For she is azure like the sky And I, The crimson before the night Together we paint a mountain sunset With a love that will never die
Continue reading...
24
Winter lingers across the open land, scattering bright flashes that pretend to be beginnings storms dressed as invitations, ice disguised as urgency. Not every spark is sunrise. Not every sudden wind is a path. Some novelties belong to cold weather swift, consuming, gone before the breath returns. But the earth studies even its harshest seasons. And beneath the deepest frost, a steadier knowledge gathers the kind that moves without rushing, changes without shattering, remembers without burning. Then comes the shift: the slow pulse of thaw, the soft insistence of longer light, the quiet newness that doesn’t arrive with fanfare but with rhythm. This newness doesn’t demand speed. It collects warmth. It gathers small energies the way rivers gather meltwater steady, patient, following the shape of the land instead of fighting it. And in that rhythm a lesson forms: that not all beginnings must blaze, that discovery can move at the pace of unfolding, that momentum grows truest when it flows instead of erupts. Some newness erupts like lightning short, bright, empty. But the lasting kind moves like spring: quiet steps of light, steady breath of color, carrying forward what it touches without consuming anything in its path. And that rhythm, soft as returning soil, is enough.
0
Nov 19, 2025
Nov 19, 2025 at 4:25 PM UTC
lackeyk10
The New That Grows
Winter lingers across the open land, scattering bright flashes that pretend to be beginnings storms dressed as invitations, ice disguised as urgency. Not every spark is sunrise. Not every sudden wind is a path. Some novelties belong to cold weather swift, consuming, gone before the breath returns. But the earth studies even its harshest seasons. And beneath the deepest frost, a steadier knowledge gathers the kind that moves without rushing, changes without shattering, remembers without burning. Then comes the shift: the slow pulse of thaw, the soft insistence of longer light, the quiet newness that doesn’t arrive with fanfare but with rhythm. This newness doesn’t demand speed. It collects warmth. It gathers small energies the way rivers gather meltwater steady, patient, following the shape of the land instead of fighting it. And in that rhythm a lesson forms: that not all beginnings must blaze, that discovery can move at the pace of unfolding, that momentum grows truest when it flows instead of erupts. Some newness erupts like lightning short, bright, empty. But the lasting kind moves like spring: quiet steps of light, steady breath of color, carrying forward what it touches without consuming anything in its path. And that rhythm, soft as returning soil, is enough.
Continue reading...
56