Image Definition Poetry Novels & Stories

Dama n'ya ang puso ng artist. Napakalungkot, maging ng napili nitong kulay. Madilim at punong-puno ng pait. Larawan ng kawalang-pag asa. Punong-puno ng sakit na at madarama ang matinding kabiguang maipagpatuloy pa ang buhay. Ipinahihiwatig ng larawan kung gaano kaikli ang mabuhay. Larawan ng isang pamamaalam.

Sa kaniyang likuran ay ang bukiring puno ng magagandang bulaklak. T'was aesthetic and Rain was having trouble finding words to describe it accurately... basta para sa kaniya'y isang diyosa ang nasa larawan, ngunit kapansin-pansin mula roon ang lungkot sa mga mata no'ng babaeng nasa larawan.

Humalakhak siya na tila nang aasar pa. “Ah! Naalala ko na. In works inspired by Ottoman divan poetry, a nightingale is sometimes shown weeping among blooming roses with sharp thorns. The nightingale's suffering among the beautiful but painful roses represents the pain of love and longing. Love and longing, huh?” Ah, fuck. Why did I even paint this piece of shit. “Itapon mo na lang o kaya ilagay mo sa bodega. Magbibihis lang ako,” paalam ko sa kanya.

Wika ng host ng Auction. “It is a visual poem of longing, love, and luminous hope. At its center, a young woman cradles a radiant heart-shaped light in her hands, an emblem of vulnerability and devotion. Her flowing dress and flower-adorned hair echo the softness of her spirit, while the sparkles and swirling petals around her create a dreamscape where emotion becomes light.”

Gamit ang Oasis Locket, ipinroyekto niya ang isang imahe—hindi ng lakas, kundi ng paglikha: isang buto na tumutubo, isang sanggol na ngumingiti, isang bituin na isinisilang. Ang purong imahe ng buhay, kasabay ng himig ng pag-asa ni Winston, ay naging isang puwersang hindi kayang labanan ng Prime Harvester. Ang sinag nito ay naglaho. Ang katawan nito ay nagsimulang maging alikabok. "Ang... kanta..." ang huling bulong nito, bago tuluyang naglaho.

Ngunit ang marahang paglubog ng araw, at ang naghahalong kulay bughaw at kahel ay nagbibigay ngiti sa kaniyang labi. It was an art. It was poetry in live-action. Kahit sinong pinakamagaling na pintor at pinakamatalinong tao'y hindi kayang iguhit at bigyang kahulugan ang kagandahan ng papalubog na araw. My lips automatically parted when her lips curved a melancholic smile. Whether or not she finds the question worthy to be answered, I can't tell which.

Dion's POV "...You have a lot to say with your eyes. I'm particularly taken with your frowning expression. Unique and stunning that you stand out from the crowd." I read aloud the final stanza of my fourth poem. I've been writing since this morning, and my mind and hands seem to be working nonstop to create poetry. To be honest, I'm very productive right now. It's amusing how many ideas pop into my head. "Hep, hep, hep! And who's that lucky person you dedicate that poem to, huh?" Dad's sudden appearance behind me surprised me.

We can hear footsteps of the people leaving the area and I guess me and Third are the only people left. Brownout. There's no light, only the moon and the stars above. I wish I can see our silhouette. I assume it is as perfect as how I imagine our story. A beautiful chaos. A beauty out of destruction. I used to write someone's life. I wish I can write mine. Now, our image of love full of lies and uncertainties, our silhouette together as I comfortably sit next to him, with my head on his shoulders and his hand on my waist, I can say it is the best picturesque I've ever imagined.