"aroura" poems - Hello Poetry

The snow drifts were quite high, piling up into the northern sky, burying towns and trees and the poor souls who had fallen asleep on the grass and had awoken with shivers as snowflakes left little kisses on their eyelids. Except that, it was never grass. There was never any grass to begin with. There was no grass or spring or sun or summer or birds. There was only winter and snow. And the blinding, white terrain had become both a place of desolation and s a n c t u a r y. The Aroura Borealis danced like a beautiful blue fire across the night sky. Stars blinked in and out of existence. And somehow, the halls always remained. The blue halls. Imagine, if you will, the Colosseum cut into halves and shaped like an elbow macaroni. Drop it out in the middle of an arctic wasteland and wash it in the blue glow of the northern, night sky. A bright yellow light poured out of the windows and onto the snow, but no one was ever inside. Some say it's the doorway to heaven. Others say it's the gates of hell. And then there are the strangers. Strangers who wear their lavender, silk headscarves and avoid the rumors of such an exquisite and eclectic piece of architecture. Others like myself. "If there is no one inside, then where is the music coming from?" He asked me, his blue eyes shining as blue as the heavenly hues against the midnight clouds. " The halls will hum if the wind passes through them just so." We listened to them once more. A low and ancient hum emanated from the structure. It was an old sound that resonated within me-unnerved me. The mysterious blue halls were not a simple door to some glorious silver city or the passageway to a fiery lake. The halls were the most beautiful and interesting instrument the universe has even known. "It's the harmonica of the gods!" Perhaps one of them dropped it. Perhaps it was a flaw in design. Perhaps it was meant to be silent and with one teensy miscalculation, an entire orchestra of notes were born by the wind. Perhaps it is telling me to tell you that you should look not towards all that makes you perfect, but the imperfections because that is where true beauty rests. And you are so beautiful. The kind of beauty that doesn't know it's own beauty. Like when you are sleeping, and the moon washes over your face. I like when you are sleeping, for you are so beautiful, yet so unaware.

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Feb 23, 2021

Feb 23, 2021 at 9:45 PM UTC

lifeasalyric

Blue Halls

The snow drifts were quite high, piling up into the northern sky, burying towns and trees and the poor souls who had fallen asleep on the grass and had awoken with shivers as snowflakes left little kisses on their eyelids. Except that, it was never grass. There was never any grass to begin with. There was no grass or spring or sun or summer or birds. There was only winter and snow. And the blinding, white terrain had become both a place of desolation and s a n c t u a r y. The Aroura Borealis danced like a beautiful blue fire across the night sky. Stars blinked in and out of existence. And somehow, the halls always remained. The blue halls. Imagine, if you will, the Colosseum cut into halves and shaped like an elbow macaroni. Drop it out in the middle of an arctic wasteland and wash it in the blue glow of the northern, night sky. A bright yellow light poured out of the windows and onto the snow, but no one was ever inside. Some say it's the doorway to heaven. Others say it's the gates of hell. And then there are the strangers. Strangers who wear their lavender, silk headscarves and avoid the rumors of such an exquisite and eclectic piece of architecture. Others like myself. "If there is no one inside, then where is the music coming from?" He asked me, his blue eyes shining as blue as the heavenly hues against the midnight clouds. " The halls will hum if the wind passes through them just so." We listened to them once more. A low and ancient hum emanated from the structure. It was an old sound that resonated within me-unnerved me. The mysterious blue halls were not a simple door to some glorious silver city or the passageway to a fiery lake. The halls were the most beautiful and interesting instrument the universe has even known. "It's the harmonica of the gods!" Perhaps one of them dropped it. Perhaps it was a flaw in design. Perhaps it was meant to be silent and with one teensy miscalculation, an entire orchestra of notes were born by the wind. Perhaps it is telling me to tell you that you should look not towards all that makes you perfect, but the imperfections because that is where true beauty rests. And you are so beautiful. The kind of beauty that doesn't know it's own beauty. Like when you are sleeping, and the moon washes over your face. I like when you are sleeping, for you are so beautiful, yet so unaware.

37

The sweet never grows old Or so it has been said silently and fortold But one never knows what fortune may hold Fortune, the misguided traveler Whom, winds wildy send That,in dandy-lionic fashion is fortune's fend All the troubles of tyrants have brought to bend There you find him, dicingly deciding Riguriously rolling away, not minding This carousing of carelessness Is what bought and sold him his business And business is good The lifestyle and the luxurious lude All was pefect, even the mood But that's the aroura allure Falling into flooding failure And business is too good Lucious conditioning can have one fooled Fortune is not to be mettled with or tooled Now it is time for this traveler to be leaved All the misspoiled one needs is his soul to be retrieved Luckyliy the lucid fortune's duty has been relieved

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Mar 3, 2017

Mar 3, 2017 at 1:55 AM UTC

gerhardt-de-lange

The wheel

The sweet never grows old Or so it has been said silently and fortold But one never knows what fortune may hold Fortune, the misguided traveler Whom, winds wildy send That,in dandy-lionic fashion is fortune's fend All the troubles of tyrants have brought to bend There you find him, dicingly deciding Riguriously rolling away, not minding This carousing of carelessness Is what bought and sold him his business And business is good The lifestyle and the luxurious lude All was pefect, even the mood But that's the aroura allure Falling into flooding failure And business is too good Lucious conditioning can have one fooled Fortune is not to be mettled with or tooled Now it is time for this traveler to be leaved All the misspoiled one needs is his soul to be retrieved Luckyliy the lucid fortune's duty has been relieved

22

It three Triangles I see the Great dipper In the day time Is this some rare aroura Or my imagination Seeing the Dipper At high noon.

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Aug 28, 2019

Aug 28, 2019 at 9:20 PM UTC

Starry89

The Big Dippers

It three Triangles I see the Great dipper In the day time Is this some rare aroura Or my imagination Seeing the Dipper At high noon.

9