#peasants
Cold winter's eve,
A peasant man mourns in the cold,
Tears all full, falling to his child's grave.
An angel then descended from the sky,
Remorseful for the great loss of his,
While she wrapped her wings around him,
She sighed and sung.
God made the stars,
He made them so you may see the eyes of your beloved,
When they return to his graceful arms.*
Feb 16, 2025
Feb 16, 2025 at 7:45 PM UTC
Death is to become sunshine,
To break open the self to the world,
In sunwheat gold and peasant hearth,
(The sun is the only empire of peasants)
Every grain of annihilation is still a seed,
And the sunlight carries the sleepless dead,
Their melted voices are warm upon our ears,
The sounds rooted in, but when we do not hear,
No more than the dead worshiping the dead.
Jun 19, 2020
Jun 19, 2020 at 1:12 PM UTC
Insurrection
by Michael R. Burch
She has become as the night—listening
for rumors of dawn—while the dew, glistening,
reminds me of her, and the wind, whistling,
lashes my cheeks with its soft chastening.
She has become as the lights—flickering
in the distance—till memories old and troubling
rise up again and demand remembering ...
like peasants rebelling against a mad king.
Originally published by The Chained Muse
Keywords/Tags: insurrection, night, dawn, wind, lights, peasants, rebelling, mad, king, old, troubling, cheeks, chastening, flickering, memories
Apr 5, 2020
Apr 5, 2020 at 4:49 AM UTC
I made a Queen/Freddie joke at dinner with my family today
They didn't understand
Peasants
Aug 11, 2019
Aug 11, 2019 at 1:33 PM UTC
Title less
We're an endless supply of love.
We're heartbeats full of life.
We're souls that are somewhat unfathomable.
We're Christian spirited, but our minds are centered to the world.
It's crazy because, Love says go on.
Heartbeats still strong.
Souls long for ours to hold on.
Spirits lift us in prayer so we stay together.
But our minds... They don't mind if we find another, so our minds wander and let us discover something other, than one another, so we cover one another thinking there is a better other, knowing that, someone like her, there ain't no other.
Our minds have to be the most disrespectful ***** in our body. It feeds on problems and issues to fulfill it's need to explore. It breaks your heart, crushes your soul and makes you think your prayers go unanswered.
Every heartbreak, every crushed soul and every unanswered prayer is exactly how your body becomes a slayer of others. Under the sheets of "I'll never be loved again" and laying on a pillow of "I'll only love her for the evening."
With her clothes on the floor screaming "You said you wouldn't do that again."
She never heard screams on top of her screams cause he was on top of her, and just for the night he was King of the world as he literally rocked her world, in her house, her bed.. And now, her walls look at her like she's a ***** cause guys are in and out like she's their local store, and she thinks she's a Queen.
Nah, she's just a peasant mopping up the Queen's mess, cause when the Queen stopped ******* she only just started.
Cause a King eats from more than one plate thinking he's more of a man for eating more, but what it makes him more of is less of a man, and from this lesson he'll never learn, until his Queen hits the streets and leaves...
Then his heart, his soul, his spirit and his mind will drown in his own pile of crap, in the toilet he crapped in... Then... Then he'll feel what it's like to be a Royal Flush.
Sep 5, 2015
Sep 5, 2015 at 11:29 AM UTC
I spot a drone today;
No bombs,
But with plenty o’ potential –
A will to malice,
To malcontent, to ******
I seek it south
And at its zenith,
Above dissent,
And the bastion that’d never know
Better, from worse.
So too, I spy it over the sands
And over cave,
Over Manhattan, over perdition,
And over “god,” over greed,
Over "great," and *********
Guaranteed;
A glistening, wrought silver teething,
“Dead,” come one wrong,
Word, or whatnot,
Anything antagonist “corporate,”
Our contradictory content,
Blessed, this,
“Complacency,” – indiscriminate.
Unbeknownst and melancholy-ridden,
The bombs have dropped,
And for some time now,
A sooner to be eternity
Whilst we’ve managed nothing but
The simplest of slumber;
We’re lucid but one second
And sheep more so the years.
The flock afar-critical,
As abstained become the hours,
The minutes, until, “then,”
Atop, “when,”
Whilst we learn again to breathe,
Maybe even dream,
And relieve the nooses continually
Knotted by others –
It’s an imaginary rebellion. Sure.
And I’m sure you’d agree;
Yet still, I soak a nightmare’s sweat
Whilst we gladly assume our
Peasant’s role
And as long as we do,
“They’ll,” gladly assume their
Thrones.
Aug 18, 2015
Aug 18, 2015 at 11:53 AM UTC