Deepest Poem Novels & Stories

"The life that perishes shall be made alive again, sacred from the skeletal remains, oracle's flesh, and soul that flew, created in the most untamed depth of a meadow and crafted by the best creator, Few people are aware, In descending darkness, lamented the breathing mallow's offspring Harden in the crow's beak. Pain from the never-ending seek Look for the truths' melodies. Betrayal, suffering, and flute beacon Try to locate the light that sheds its skin. Maybe it's you who comes out on top?”

The very deep did rot: O Christ! That ever this should be! Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs, Upon the slimy sea. About, about, in reel and rout The death-fires danced at night; The water, like a witch's oils, Burnt green, and blue and white. And some in dreams assurèd were Of the Spirit that plagued us so; Nine fathom deep, he had followed us From the land of mist and snow.

I am so blessed to be here in this incredible place but I wish we were here under better circumstances. Not on the run from a psycho member of parliament. This all seems so unreal, to say I’m going crazy is an understatement. Every morning I wake up and come to this beautiful balcony and watch the world come alive. From here I can see the Blyde River. If I look hard enough I can see Hippos swimming, birds fishing for their breakfast. I see the beauty that is in front of me but all I feel is dread, anger, fear, confusion, and… In a nutshell, I’m furious.

he commented as he landed on a poem he had been searching for. I shrugged. "It wasn't something we touched on too much." He smiled and looked at the page before he read aloud softly. As he read his voice broke but his eyes stayed dry. "To lose thee, sweeter than to gain All other hearts I knew. Tis true the drought is destitute But, then, I had the dew! The Caspian has its realms of sand, Its other realm of sea. Without this sterile perquisite No Caspian could be."

Damian is shouting a name from somewhere very far away and getting no answer, and I have the dim distant thought that the name is mine, and that I have stopped owning it. And then, in the dead and freezing silence where my child's heartbeat used to beat, I feel it. Not a beat. A gathering. I understand, with the last clear thought I have, that the stillness is not death. It is the deepest invert I have ever felt, deeper than my father ever taught me, deeper than the Well has a bottom for. A Sovereign drawing the whole of itself down past the floor of any well into a single banked, frozen, gathering point of absolute cold, the way a star, before it does the other thing a star can do, first dr

A glow of wisdom, of knowledge and old A tale of a world, where myths unfold In cities of wonder, where dreams are made The streets whisper stories, of a world yet unafraid A world of possibility, of hope and desire Where hearts beat strong, and love sets the fire In the silence of night, where darkness reigns A light flickers softly, a beacon that remains A light of guidance, of hope and peace A shining star, that the heart can release In the depths of the soul, where emotions reside A voice whispers softly, a gentle, loving tide A tide of compassion, of empathy and kindness true A heart that beats strongly, with a love that shines through In the realm of eternity, where time stands still A

It reach the point of explossion, reach the deepest of the cave that slowly shaking, beating the hardness that was the fattest cave. Then there's a loudest cry that slowly defeated. The siren at the deepest lake shock the silent and push back the cry to never reach so far from the deepest of the cave. It block one from catching the cry and even notice the plea that accompanied with it. The one that got his way too far away. Not able to felt the ounce of burst and change that slowly give birth to a new season of the place. The forgotten one slowly trying to revive itself! “My...child,” the cry before it totally defeated by the destroyer of the sea. It so weak to even try to cry again, and eve

They were proof of his supernatural existence, the red a constant reminder of what he was. With his eyes staring dead ahead into the open space, he let the screams of agony that has been torturing his troubled soul escape his parched throat. He pulled at his white hair, tugging at it while panting and gritting his teeth like a ferocious animal in pain. He dug his nails into his balled palm and screamed some more.

I've fallen for a knight He shoots me this arrow of love I can't resist It's impeccable! It's impeccable! It's impeccable! It's an impeccable feeling for the impeccable you. I sang as i thought of him, i had no idea I've being crying again, I remembered my dad's word "tears does not solve problems" i wiped my tears but my eyes still watered, my stomach grumbled cos I've not eaten and I my didn't know when I slept off. ***

And yet, sometimes when the rain hit glass or a voice in a crowd dipped low and thoughtful, I’d hear him again, You shouldn’t hide your fire, Miss Lyn. He became a memory stitched into everything I wrote. So when I walked into the gallery that night, a charity exhibit celebrating urban poets and saw him across the room, it felt like stepping into one of my own poems. He stood by a wall of paintings, hands in his pockets, wearing a black suit that didn’t look new but looked right. A decade had sharpened him: streaks of gray at his temples, the same deep-set eyes, older now, quieter but not softer. And those eyes found me instantly.