#poeticimagery - Hello Poetry

A room that remembers the scent of memories. At the corner, red eyes met the cold breeze. When the sun climbs the quiet sky, no creases on the bedsheet, only stillness alive. The curtain doesn’t float, the wind no longer visits the windows. Lingering thoughts leave their imprint on the veil of settled ash. The flower has died in the blue vase. Echoes of the past tangled in the dark.

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6d ago

May 28, 2026 at 10:40 AM UTC

ceebeenotes

Veil of Ash

A room that remembers the scent of memories. At the corner, red eyes met the cold breeze. When the sun climbs the quiet sky, no creases on the bedsheet, only stillness alive. The curtain doesn’t float, the wind no longer visits the windows. Lingering thoughts leave their imprint on the veil of settled ash. The flower has died in the blue vase. Echoes of the past tangled in the dark.

17

The moon is a bruised lantern leaking clocks, its silver tears pooling on the rooftops of sleeping cities. Rivers crawl upward, dragging their reflections behind them, as if the sky itself demanded a ransom for the stars. The horizon folds like wet origami, screaming in color, folds of crimson, violet, and molten gold stretching beyond the memory of my eyes. Shadows bloom teeth where flowers should be, biting at the ankles of wandering dreams. Branches twist like the spines of forgotten books, their leaves whispering secrets I cannot remember. Clouds fracture into paper swans, drifting on invisible currents, each carrying the sigh of a world I never touched. And I, absurd and incandescent, drink eternity from the fracture, sip by trembling sip, until my reflection wavers and the moon blinks in sympathy, as if it too is learning to bleed time.

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Nov 21, 2025

Nov 21, 2025 at 1:13 PM UTC

writtenbyjulia

Drinking Eternity

The moon is a bruised lantern leaking clocks, its silver tears pooling on the rooftops of sleeping cities. Rivers crawl upward, dragging their reflections behind them, as if the sky itself demanded a ransom for the stars. The horizon folds like wet origami, screaming in color, folds of crimson, violet, and molten gold stretching beyond the memory of my eyes. Shadows bloom teeth where flowers should be, biting at the ankles of wandering dreams. Branches twist like the spines of forgotten books, their leaves whispering secrets I cannot remember. Clouds fracture into paper swans, drifting on invisible currents, each carrying the sigh of a world I never touched. And I, absurd and incandescent, drink eternity from the fracture, sip by trembling sip, until my reflection wavers and the moon blinks in sympathy, as if it too is learning to bleed time.

19

You were drifting clouds in my memories—sometimes soft, sometimes wild. But without you, those memories would have been empty and lonely. Maybe I am the desert, with an endless hunger, and you are the rain that never quenches it. This desert once was wet; now it's lifeless and empty. Will you sprinkle on it some water of joy and sorrow? I promise I will always stand by you.

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Aug 30, 2025

Aug 30, 2025 at 3:52 PM UTC

Jyo954709

Drifting Clouds

You were drifting clouds in my memories—sometimes soft, sometimes wild. But without you, those memories would have been empty and lonely. Maybe I am the desert, with an endless hunger, and you are the rain that never quenches it. This desert once was wet; now it's lifeless and empty. Will you sprinkle on it some water of joy and sorrow? I promise I will always stand by you.

7

I am lost — __without a horizon__. Tell me: what is it like to live without a conscience? Learning how to freefall in the golden patterns of parachutes, each moment feels like sunrise blooming in my eyes. Dreams are like aged photographs, as we live in their flat silence, posing in fragments, dancing around opinions in wide, unguarded smiles. But under a blasting sun, its rays hit like bullets piercing ivy-orange through my chest — _autumn-hued_ wounds that hope to shimmer like the gleam of sunset. So I gather what glows, from scattered light and broken frames, trying to make warmth from splinters, and to name it hope. _Even in freefall, there’s beauty in how we land._

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Aug 5, 2025

Aug 5, 2025 at 1:34 PM UTC

OddOdysseyPoet

Sunset Parachutes

I am lost — __without a horizon__. Tell me: what is it like to live without a conscience? Learning how to freefall in the golden patterns of parachutes, each moment feels like sunrise blooming in my eyes. Dreams are like aged photographs, as we live in their flat silence, posing in fragments, dancing around opinions in wide, unguarded smiles. But under a blasting sun, its rays hit like bullets piercing ivy-orange through my chest — _autumn-hued_ wounds that hope to shimmer like the gleam of sunset. So I gather what glows, from scattered light and broken frames, trying to make warmth from splinters, and to name it hope. _Even in freefall, there’s beauty in how we land._

14

I guess now, the night we met is just a memory— a self-portrait without ****** features, Only streaks where tears once ran, as the image is so blurry, but I still see myself Running back to you… _too easily_. It’s such a sad picture— an enigma, half-painted with eager thoughts quietly bleeding Into the ink of doubt, each brushstroke pulling me further from the truth I never wanted to name Now it just hangs… _so awkwardly crooked_ You left me walking alone in this gallery _of only terrible memories._

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Jul 16, 2025

Jul 16, 2025 at 3:01 PM UTC

OddOdysseyPoet

Terrible Memories on Display

I guess now, the night we met is just a memory— a self-portrait without ****** features, Only streaks where tears once ran, as the image is so blurry, but I still see myself Running back to you… _too easily_. It’s such a sad picture— an enigma, half-painted with eager thoughts quietly bleeding Into the ink of doubt, each brushstroke pulling me further from the truth I never wanted to name Now it just hangs… _so awkwardly crooked_ You left me walking alone in this gallery _of only terrible memories._

12

The curtain moved. Not with wind— but with something warm, like breath held then let go. Her anklet scraped the floor tile only once. Your tea steeped too long on the windowsill. The calendar page was blank. Her scarf stayed where she dropped it— on the chair’s back, faint with lemon shampoo. And you— you didn’t touch it. Not then. But later, you folded it. Twice. As if that meant you hadn’t looked. - THE END - © 2025 June, Hasanur Rahman Shaikh. All rights reserved.

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Jun 17, 2025

Jun 17, 2025 at 9:27 AM UTC

khaali_qalam

Unfolded Silence

The curtain moved. Not with wind— but with something warm, like breath held then let go. Her anklet scraped the floor tile only once. Your tea steeped too long on the windowsill. The calendar page was blank. Her scarf stayed where she dropped it— on the chair’s back, faint with lemon shampoo. And you— you didn’t touch it. Not then. But later, you folded it. Twice. As if that meant you hadn’t looked. - THE END - © 2025 June, Hasanur Rahman Shaikh. All rights reserved.

31

Standing on top of each morning briefly stopping by each evening shortly unmindful, my eyes are chasing, my eyelids are sweeping with light the sky splattered with colours pilled out after hitting horizon's last shore. I am thinking what is this crimson, colour of lovers' hearts torn from each other and taking on to opposite paths, or the reddish glow of minds come together after dark moments of separation? Half of my life is soaked in colour watching these red glows spilled over the side-door that admits the day and the bamboo portals that shut out the day, but could not understand whether this earth and sky part in the evening and meet in the morning or part in the morning and meet in the evening! -०-

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Jun 9, 2025

Jun 9, 2025 at 1:06 AM UTC

sumanpokhrel

Colour of Horizon

Standing on top of each morning briefly stopping by each evening shortly unmindful, my eyes are chasing, my eyelids are sweeping with light the sky splattered with colours pilled out after hitting horizon's last shore. I am thinking what is this crimson, colour of lovers' hearts torn from each other and taking on to opposite paths, or the reddish glow of minds come together after dark moments of separation? Half of my life is soaked in colour watching these red glows spilled over the side-door that admits the day and the bamboo portals that shut out the day, but could not understand whether this earth and sky part in the evening and meet in the morning or part in the morning and meet in the evening! -०-

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