deviantart-poets

Shining light when I first saw your eyes, my love. An angel, my heart you did occupy, love. We are two wandering halves of the same soul who are desiring to reunify love. Some men give cities, bodies, and spirit, but for you I'd give love another try, love. God's plan is perfect, and it is his to know; how could I know you yet your love deny, love? You plant your kisses with soft rose petal lips on my lips and whisper your lullaby, love. Your fingertips touch the beating of my heart in whose rhythm you can identify love. At night, while you sleep, I hold you close to me, praying to God, he who does sanctify love. Though in some months I will be leaving this place, the distance serves only to amplify love. Though the stars cannot be seen during the day, in darkness their light does intensify, love. Like the songs I sing and the roses you give, a love like ours exists to testify love. If love moves your hero's heart to write these words, may God move the pen to orchestrate my

Time has told the true apart, the faithful from the false. Echoes still sing of your face, and good fortune's faithful pulse is too tired to feel at heart. Seconds pass at season's pace, and memories mark the hours. I wish for what will heal my mind, which my grief devours. I seek a silent, sacred place. You will that we will never feel the love that we once lived. You have hardened your heart to the truth that is and to all the love I had to give. I rise and relinquish my need to kneel. His heart is now yours, and yours is now his.

It's only mid-summer And I can already see how trees will wither Their leaves yellow Rotting in mid-air while they fall Unaware of giants that used to hold them The snow has melted recently But I already imagine it storming in Covering the autumn's death in white Chilling the sandy shores Where naked feet still burn today The cycles they keep on turning Why do the living bother With this endless struggle to keep up with time Forced by laws they’ll never understand Animating their skins through the landscape I can already smell the cold wind I can already feel its fingers Caress the goosebumps on my confused skin Animals will stockpile what they can And humans will pretend another spring is sure to come Oblivious to being mortal I can already hear the funeral drums I can see flesh pealing off the crumbling bones And the seasons will keep on going No matter if a soul marvels at their dance

Earth is a big place I want to explore it all while I have the chance

Who’s the shadow underneath the mask Who’s the sad clown With a knife behind her back Who’s the secret whisperer And the maker of all dreams Who’s the fragile thread That connects present with the past Who’s the conqueror of pain Who is the child hurt and who licks the scars Who’s the voice that never stops As long as time ticks Who’s the watcher behind the tinted glass The true self never dies Covered by dirt and shame it hides It struggles its way through the tides The shadow and the mask The nameless one behind both lies

"Tell me," she urged "How to write in Meter!" "Oh, please!" He told the poet, Jane "You already are, friend!" He beamed Laughing "Oh, right," she exclaimed Eyes to the ceiling She grinned "How fun!" "Well, sir, have a wonderful eve." "So I shall," he replied, bowing They hugged Warmly Jane closed and latched her diary And pleasant dreams were had that night

Tendrils of golden hair billowed from a perfectly round iron cap. The jewel-encrusted scabbard swayed jerkily from behind, for in it was sheathed the viking's ancestral sword. He crossed his left arm over his face, and was bent nearly double before the blizzard. Through the flurry of milk-white pellets, which stung every inch of his exposed skin, was the yawning black maw from whence they flew. The wind was a loud, muffled whistling in the ears, rather like a woodwind section who plugged every hole of their instruments with their fingers as they blew. Only the ground, a pockmarked canvas of powdery snow and exposed soil, served to orient the lone viking: he who was Tarvas Lothrudel, plunderer of many lands, but who wondered if he had at last found his reckoning. Tarvas stopped dead in his tracks. He squinted at something peculiar, standing a stone's throw in front of him. It took him a moment to realize it was a doorway; a single ornately-carved rectangle of oak, snow piled up all