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Literature Text
A crown held firm
In a demigod hand
A once proud king
Down on his knees
Long held promises
Have run their course
Now it's time
For a pound of flesh
No matter how holy
And good he was
The crown was tainted
From the demon spawn
No good could come
From such a seed
Back into darkness
This land filled with need
In a demigod hand
A once proud king
Down on his knees
Long held promises
Have run their course
Now it's time
For a pound of flesh
No matter how holy
And good he was
The crown was tainted
From the demon spawn
No good could come
From such a seed
Back into darkness
This land filled with need
Literature
the flower club
dear preacher,
i've got something to admit
last sunday
i was in the field
i was watching the flowers get dressed
well they're just so pretty naked
petals tucked into their sides
and watching them unfold
i was watching them pull down the sunrise
and put it on themselves
so i'm a sinner for it
cause i watched them bathe, too
stand around together in the shower
a hundred ladies in their beautiful skins
pink small ones
big blue proud ones
letting the droplets collect and residue
on their finery and shamelessly bare leaves
well that's my confession preacher
i watch the flowers strip and tease
Literature
my father lived in India
my father is a man of many colors.
on the nights when the moon stays asleep,
he lotions his palms with pomegranate juice.
the sugared blood pools in the creases of his
skin, staining it India’s red.
sometimes, my father scrubs his hands until
they are nothing but flesh & fruit rinds.
when he was younger—all skinned knees and pocket
knives—he must've slipped on a thousand marbles.
my father’s father was a welder who rolled and spun
steel into tiny spheres.
when he died, my father’s hands became blue and
free of pocket knives. to this day, he keeps a bag
of marbles on our mantle.
from time to time, he s
Literature
The Prince of the Bog
He watched the impenetrable mist curl into intricate shapes, forming an ethereal spectacle in the dim light of the late afternoon. It danced around the sturdy oak trees and caressed the rough barks in an almost tender fashion. Gnarled branches swayed and leaves rustled, murmuring a soft melody that resonated throughout the bog and pierced right into its heart. Though in motion, the scenery seemed strangely cold and lifeless. Darkness encroached from below to boldly sweep across the land, before swallowing it. Tendrils, smooth and tortuous, reached for the old barks’ roots, as if trying to pull them underground. Perhaps, they had succeed
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This poem was inspired by the powerful painting by Aftertouch - aftertouch.deviantart.com/art/…
© 2014 - 2024 Just-a-Nomad
Comments4
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Wow. This is a beautiful piece. I cannot help but to draw so many different correlations as to how and or why you wrote this. Thank you so much for sharing this, it's lovely.
~Fang.
~Fang.