Dead Poets Society Poem Novels & Stories

There was once an uproar in the zone so I went there in hunger to see, what had disrupted the street's peace but I was dismayed to see, my brother burnt amidst some captured thieves I was grieved but never denied peace for I thought what was it worth for living within hope and grief since year four when death started taking all whom I adore denying them the stage of hoar Yes, I knew I was someone fate truly deplore and I was set to bear it no more so as fate was the writer of my birth so shall it be the one to write of my death. but just as I was about to take my breath, to drink from the flowing river of lethe a man caught me calling on death and my hope was again awakened by Seth the man w

I know that magic is just an illusion, a trick. Dusting my clothes, I made my way toward my team. They had now assembled themselves in one place, their eyes still holding surprise, and I could guess that they were waiting for me to explain. The crowds were as silent as a graveyard. They weren't making any of their stupid noises, and I am sure they were still trying to recover from the shock of seeing me again. That made me remember a story in the Bible that our Sunday school teacher told us about. It was the story of a man named Lazarus who was resurrected from the dead. The only difference between us is that I have been dead for two months, or should I say suffering and wandering around an

For then both drop their masks and find togetherness, happiness, serenity. I ain't barking mad, ma and dad, neither am I barking sad, but would you bar a king, or ba ba a RAM, especially a newborn lamb? I'm playin' is all, play yin and yang for a ball, for a Cinderella sole, for a sash of ash after the fire is cold. Know, I ain't barking mad - I'm mad for a lamb king though, not a lame king, not the kind that's all ear 'e-go again, making a black hole, not a black whole, not a Santa sack goal, but a Santa sack coal - no matter who die - to gamble with lives, to roll the die, to spin the chamber at the poor, for the poor know hearts are are real at least. No, I ain't no saint, but I can see t

★★★★★ MORTUARY* Antonio walked into the mortuary slowly, his eyes gazing around the numerous grave lowered around the big land. Some people could be seen in front of some graves, crying while some were with flowers placing it on the top of it. Antonio bit his lips as he remembered how he lost his wife, Tatiana's mother and he blinked tears. His eyes roamed around but no sign of Tatiana. She's always frequent in this place but today's different.

Her Pov: I’m so tired… utterly drained. I don’t even know how long I’ve been trapped in this endless void of darkness. Is this what the afterlife feels like? A suffocating abyss where time has no meaning, and hope is but a distant memory? I’ve been wandering through these shadowed corridors, my footsteps echoing in the silence, searching—desperately—for a single glimpse of light. But no matter how far I go or how hard I try, the darkness stretches on, infinite and unyielding.

Night breathed in without hurry. Back then, this garden held nothing but silence and sadness. Each time I moved along the dirt trails, strength slipped further, gone like breath in cold air. Nobody saw how thin I got, how slow my feet dragged. While petals opened wide and bright, my body curled inward, shrinking. Waves crashed without pause as my pulse stuttered beneath skin. Death came not with thunder, just a steady drain - cup after cup, her voice soft, calling me sweet names while pouring poison into porcelain.

It laughed so hard that even some of the crying stopped — people freezing mid-sob, stunned by the sheer insanity of the sound. I could feel it vibrating through my chest, every note cutting through my ribs. When it finally stopped, it wiped an invisible tear from the corner of its eye and said, still chuckling, “Have you forgotten?” Its grin twisted. “You’re also dead.” The man’s mouth fell open. “W-what?” he whispered, barely audible. The Game Master leaned down until their foreheads almost touched. “Dead,” it repeated, dragging the word out like a lover’s whisper. “Every single one of you. Including you. You died. You’re not alive.”

She had escaped from the crypt. "He's not dead! He's not dead!" Daphne threw herself onto the coffin, pounding on the lid like a woman possessed, her voice so shredded it was barely human. "Stellan isn't dead! He's not dead! He's not dead! You can't bury him! He's really not dead!" The chapel erupted. Everyone stared at Daphne in shock, then at the coffin, then at each other.

The evening breeze was gentle, carrying the fresh scent of early summer plants growing. In the courtyard below, children laughed and ran around. Elderly residents strolled leisurely. Life flowed on in its most ordinary and solid form. I took a deep breath, filling my lungs with fresh air. The three months after Arya's death, which had been full of her family's scheming, were like a long, oppressive nightmare. Thankfully, I had woken up. Wounds would scab over, pain would fade, and the lessons I learned would stay with me, making me stronger and wiser going forward. Night fell, and the city lights came on. I went back inside and turned on the lights. Warm illumination instantly filled the ent

Waste system started, because nobody writes songs about sanitation but everyone dies when it fails. Maya strings noise-makers at the rear fence from cans and fishing line. Elegant? No. Useful? Yes. Aesthetic rating low, LUS says. “It’s an apocalypse tripwire, not a wedding centerpiece.” Function adequate. “Be still my heart.” At 6:17 p.m., twenty-four hours after the world publicly tore itself open, Maya stands in the center of the warehouse and listens. Sirens still exist, but fewer. Gunshots now punctuate the city in short, ugly bursts. The dead are no longer incidents. They are weather.