My commander lies on a bed of roses, His pulse denied, his body turned to ashes, An eulogy I have prepared, but engulfed by sadness,
By Ricky Lahiri2 years ago in Poets
They have bombs in Israel Which they throw from the skies Poor old Palestinians subhuman Let them all die. And they said the Palestinians are cruel
In the city where dreams take flight, Streets alive, day and night. Neon signs gleam, casting shadows tall, Concrete world where we stand tall.
By Sandra M2 years ago in Poets
In shadows deep, where whispers sigh, Lust's flame ignites, a primal cry. A dance of souls in passionate embrace, In every touch, a wild, untamed grace.
By Rubesh2 years ago in Poets
In the old, green world, I was king, With steps like thunder, I'd swing. Tall ferns, like castle walls, they'd cling, In that time, I ruled everything.
On my way up to the Swiss alps i took a detour off the beaten path to find myself, and be one with who made me a naive sweetness in me, i've never been one to see the evil first
By Valentine Vampire2 years ago in Poets
In the heart of the ancient forest, where the shadows whispered secrets and the pines murmured tales of old, lay the enigmatic Whispering Pines—a realm of mystery and darkness shrouded in the embrace of nature. Its tangled undergrowth and looming trees bore witness to centuries of forgotten whispers and unseen forces that danced among the shadows.
By Dannie2 years ago in Poets
When I look into your blue eyes Losing myself in them Your eyes sparkling and reflecting light The light of both happiness and pain.
Love, they say, never dies Even near the end, when all must die And with our souls love shall reach the heavenly sky In the grip of passion, time flies.
I am but a feather in the wind A grain of sand in the storm A flake of snow in the blizzard Determined to sing freedom's songs.
I'm an angel, here, in hell. My body hurts. My skin hurts. Not a fucking feather to float, I run. I cry. Special, happy, perfect--
By Jennifer David2 years ago in Poets
I was walking by the river red Of tears and blood it was made The hauntings of ghosts’ past-dead long ago The imprint of the demagogue never fades.
