"perfervidly" poems - Hello Poetry

Alas, here ends thy monotone passion and as fiery tongues lash, so you ignite trembling hands, eyes of crimson fashion whipping across the land with monstrous might Let them all clutch silence, gather around marry their nightmares with its horrid call for it gleefully saunters, the howling sound and pounces perfervidly upon their thrall Pain is as air, light and fleeting a placid kiss to the farmer's yield much unlike that whirlwind in one's bones- that immutable suffering of journeys sealed

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Feb 12, 2019

Feb 12, 2019 at 10:04 PM UTC

Horus

The Whirlwind

Alas, here ends thy monotone passion and as fiery tongues lash, so you ignite trembling hands, eyes of crimson fashion whipping across the land with monstrous might Let them all clutch silence, gather around marry their nightmares with its horrid call for it gleefully saunters, the howling sound and pounces perfervidly upon their thrall Pain is as air, light and fleeting a placid kiss to the farmer's yield much unlike that whirlwind in one's bones- that immutable suffering of journeys sealed

12

Sinking to the deeper suffocation, I scavenge the soil for the astray nail. A final spike to lock away the life. As the light gets darker, a pungent smell takes over, smearing everything in its stench. I descry my melting face. Air implored perfervidly to break my obstinacy. I dived deeper, smiling at its desperate attempt. Its hope to stop the dead from dying. My fingers touch the inner debris, aspiring to find the last nail for the coffin. A couple of more suffocations later, I find it; hidden under the pile of thorns. I pin it to my heart. One last breath, and I ceased at the dawn.

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Nov 12, 2020

Nov 12, 2020 at 12:37 AM UTC

thenoodlepoetry

One last breath

Sinking to the deeper suffocation, I scavenge the soil for the astray nail. A final spike to lock away the life. As the light gets darker, a pungent smell takes over, smearing everything in its stench. I descry my melting face. Air implored perfervidly to break my obstinacy. I dived deeper, smiling at its desperate attempt. Its hope to stop the dead from dying. My fingers touch the inner debris, aspiring to find the last nail for the coffin. A couple of more suffocations later, I find it; hidden under the pile of thorns. I pin it to my heart. One last breath, and I ceased at the dawn.

19

Yearning apricity, feathers soar higher, pleading perfervidly to the Sun.

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Nov 16, 2020

Nov 16, 2020 at 8:41 AM UTC

thenoodlepoetry

The last hope

Yearning apricity, feathers soar higher, pleading perfervidly to the Sun.

3

at first when we meet, I am only a tiny closet. all the clothes I wear I made myself, they are dog-eared but have finger pockets hidden everywhere. I hide under an enormous hood, inside an elephant's trunk, Sharp silver-splinters drag behind me. Gigantic black boot feet that sway across twice the size of my stride. Beautiful angel-shaped woman-being. I hustle your form and posture, crossing your T's and blinking my eyes, I stir and twist, anxiously wriggling out and passion, your sleep performs prolific dreams arousing large smiles upon your face. I free climb up your chin, intervals I pause and pause again, nestling in the bow of your dimple, the arc of your lip. You rocket me into erupting euphoric bliss- our skin suits harmonizing outside of our heavy breaths and deeply entransive pantomime. I fly from a classroom naked to rescue you from Grecian alligators barking like feral dogs pushing you into the white picket fence you are still afraid of into your twenties. you are my sixth star above mourning, right on until neverland. For better or for worse, we team the enigmas of life's endless bounties in erupting landscape, while I have only begun to tame the teeming populations of the Middle West. every turn produces an inquisitive moan, except it is difficult to breathe as you are able at eighteen thousand feet. I am further and perfervidly mesmerized.

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May 25, 2018

May 25, 2018 at 6:02 AM UTC

martin-narrod

Elizabeth

at first when we meet, I am only a tiny closet. all the clothes I wear I made myself, they are dog-eared but have finger pockets hidden everywhere. I hide under an enormous hood, inside an elephant's trunk, Sharp silver-splinters drag behind me. Gigantic black boot feet that sway across twice the size of my stride. Beautiful angel-shaped woman-being. I hustle your form and posture, crossing your T's and blinking my eyes, I stir and twist, anxiously wriggling out and passion, your sleep performs prolific dreams arousing large smiles upon your face. I free climb up your chin, intervals I pause and pause again, nestling in the bow of your dimple, the arc of your lip. You rocket me into erupting euphoric bliss- our skin suits harmonizing outside of our heavy breaths and deeply entransive pantomime. I fly from a classroom naked to rescue you from Grecian alligators barking like feral dogs pushing you into the white picket fence you are still afraid of into your twenties. you are my sixth star above mourning, right on until neverland. For better or for worse, we team the enigmas of life's endless bounties in erupting landscape, while I have only begun to tame the teeming populations of the Middle West. every turn produces an inquisitive moan, except it is difficult to breathe as you are able at eighteen thousand feet. I am further and perfervidly mesmerized.

10

In suddenness, I will write a poem for you. You had stopped at the outset, like a black moon opening up perfervidly. Remote from the oneness of life, a flame leapt up to ignite the process of birth― without perceiving. Come let's meet at the navel of the destiny. I had the penchant of burning myself. You, who would never be visible, I will dust all the mirrors to find out. Waiting for the festival to begin.

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Oct 22, 2016

Oct 22, 2016 at 8:04 PM UTC

satsih-verma

For Pythia

In suddenness, I will write a poem for you. You had stopped at the outset, like a black moon opening up perfervidly. Remote from the oneness of life, a flame leapt up to ignite the process of birth― without perceiving. Come let's meet at the navel of the destiny. I had the penchant of burning myself. You, who would never be visible, I will dust all the mirrors to find out. Waiting for the festival to begin.

17