"dystrophic" poems - Hello Poetry

Handing out wings like they were portions of God this narrow asphalt made by architects of tourism movers of time and space reaching out like insane astronauts or genius heretics breathing our iodine becoming halogens the sky moves sideways dystrophic airwaves feeble beacons eerie radio silence here come more perils from the sky

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Sep 27, 2022

Sep 27, 2022 at 8:31 AM UTC

Carlo-C-Gomez

The Wreck of the Fairchild

Handing out wings like they were portions of God this narrow asphalt made by architects of tourism movers of time and space reaching out like insane astronauts or genius heretics breathing our iodine becoming halogens the sky moves sideways dystrophic airwaves feeble beacons eerie radio silence here come more perils from the sky

13

My strength has gone, My soul has perished, I lost my home, The Light was vanquished. Dystrophic sounds, The brutal cacophony Of silence and longing, It's a bludgeoned symphany. - Caressing the cheek, Fingers through her hair, Smiling subtlely, Then I awake without air. The wind eats at each bone The rain chills them still, And what good is this home Without her will? The imagination runs wild With dreams of perfection, The qualities of flaws, The insurrection. Grieving turmoil and, alas, it has, Been determined to happen as fast, It creeps along its vertices, Stoking fire of improbability, Fending for myself, alone, It seems to me I must here drone, Wasting away every single chance, To break free of a pallid trance, I've always escaped my heart of thoughts, I've always ended what all have brought, I've always ended what songs she sings, I've always brought about suffering, I've always snuffed my last candle-light I've always gripped the ledge too tight, I've always choked the life from myself, I've always drowned my sorrows in Hell, I've always heard of my downfall, I've always scorned the love in all, I've always been plagued with bitter hate, Although, I'll always hate love, and love it still, I'll always wish for someone until... I'll always lust for something great I'll always rush for my own fate, I'll always need the hand to hold, Whatever in my life may happen in the cold.

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May 30, 2013

May 30, 2013 at 12:17 AM UTC

andrew-p-marheine

Always.

My strength has gone, My soul has perished, I lost my home, The Light was vanquished. Dystrophic sounds, The brutal cacophony Of silence and longing, It's a bludgeoned symphany. - Caressing the cheek, Fingers through her hair, Smiling subtlely, Then I awake without air. The wind eats at each bone The rain chills them still, And what good is this home Without her will? The imagination runs wild With dreams of perfection, The qualities of flaws, The insurrection. Grieving turmoil and, alas, it has, Been determined to happen as fast, It creeps along its vertices, Stoking fire of improbability, Fending for myself, alone, It seems to me I must here drone, Wasting away every single chance, To break free of a pallid trance, I've always escaped my heart of thoughts, I've always ended what all have brought, I've always ended what songs she sings, I've always brought about suffering, I've always snuffed my last candle-light I've always gripped the ledge too tight, I've always choked the life from myself, I've always drowned my sorrows in Hell, I've always heard of my downfall, I've always scorned the love in all, I've always been plagued with bitter hate, Although, I'll always hate love, and love it still, I'll always wish for someone until... I'll always lust for something great I'll always rush for my own fate, I'll always need the hand to hold, Whatever in my life may happen in the cold.

47

An atrophic fold in the waist - A victim of Consumption. An entropic mind is a waste, And wasting away alone, I lie still Over the sheets, naked. The dystrophic limbs, pins and needles and numb lips, All the lonely night can be is the stave-off of sleep And the starving of self - From my eyes my spirit leaps, But tonight, time is set, and fate is set, And my face is set for spirit’s rest.

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Apr 11, 2011

Apr 11, 2011 at 12:45 PM UTC

j-m-bougourd

Consumption

An atrophic fold in the waist - A victim of Consumption. An entropic mind is a waste, And wasting away alone, I lie still Over the sheets, naked. The dystrophic limbs, pins and needles and numb lips, All the lonely night can be is the stave-off of sleep And the starving of self - From my eyes my spirit leaps, But tonight, time is set, and fate is set, And my face is set for spirit’s rest.

12