Novel & Cerita Readable Poetry

Appearing as reading. The read is this. Appearing as read. No separation. No distance. No time. No gap. Only this. The light that is. The love that is. The being that is. Here. Now. Without here. Without now. This. The story never needed telling. Because the telling was the told. The listener was the listening. The silence was the speaking. The page was the ink. The ink was the meaning. The meaning was the meaningless. The meaningless was the meaningful.

Stacy remembered a poem she learned in her literature classes back in senior secondary. Unparalleled beauty, worth the praise a maiden,resembling a starry night beautiful to gaze,forbidden to touch a deadly weapon, to the mankind But in this case it was not maiden,but a man . Whose beauty was intoxicating,like a thousand old wine.This beauty was hers. Here's to corrupt,hers to own,here's to possess,hers to dominate and she couldn't be any happier.

It wasn't long before she found out that she could read everything despite very slowly. It was a poem, which read as follows: 'It was the Coming of the Midnight Sun, A daughter of the Sacred Wood, Lay in a chamber of the House of the Moon, And thus shall wither like a dying star Til the touch of a virgin at dawn.'

She crouched, touching a glowing letter. It pulsed once beneath her fingertip, warm and alive. > “The world’s writing poetry now,” she murmured. > “Or asking questions,” Adrian said behind her. He knelt, studying the lines. “They’re fragments. Conscious thoughts trying to connect.” > “Like a baby’s first words?” > “More like a symphony learning its first note.” The words kept appearing, vanishing as soon as the rain touched them. > “It’s thinking out loud,” Mira whispered. “We made a world that dreams.”

"Let's read poetry this evening. The words are so hauntingly beautiful and you will make them just sing off of the page. Here try this." Anders let his eyes wander across the page and read the words to himself, but then the cloaked figure said to him, "Outloud, Anders. I want to hear you read the beautiful words outloud." He read each word with clarity, thinking 'This is such a haunting poem.' "Wind and willow, come take me back to where the worlds meet, and bring me fractured to the sea, let my soul carry me to places and shores where my eyes will never see.

"Which is exactly why I need to see your weak points so we could come up with a solution to help you get better." His blue-eyes scan the room. "Lost, love, hope. Good poetry isn't what we think, it is what one feels. You can't write a piece if it doesn't move you, make you feel. When it does-" For a shocking second Mr. Boyds lips tilted into a smile, as though recalling a good memory in his head. "Then that's good poetry."

Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced, but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: A poet could not but be gay, In such a jocund company: I gazed—and gazed—but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought: For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills,

The fireplace crackled softly, casting amber light across the lakehouse living room. Shadows danced across the walls as the wind outside whispered through the trees. Inside, time felt suspended. Ava sat cross-legged on the thick rug, the warmth of the fire brushing her bare arms. She was reading from a dog eared poetry collection she’d found tucked between old novels on a high shelf. The spine was cracked. The pages smelled like memories. The poems weren’t curated or famous just raw, honest words scrawled by someone who must’ve loved too deeply.

Immediately he was in the comfort of his fancy car, he sighted a fresh sheet of paper on his dashboard and took it at once. Looking through the front and back pages, Yomi discovered that it was some sort of poem with no name on it, so he decided to read it out of curiosity. It reads thus: How exquisite is this view as I revisit you Words of love begin to write as I sigh in delight The day has only started and my eyes have spilled with tears They have never parted from what lies fulfilled by years God, are you so beautiful and nothing but divine I beg of you to see like me, oh why not redefine

My heart started to beat fast in my chest. How many times had she seen us at our worst? How much had we hurt her without even realizing it? Feeling overwhelmed, I turned to the next page and found a short poem scribbled in her neat handwriting. It was about stars, rivers, and memories. Reading her words, I felt a sense of peace and calm wash over me. It was as if Val was speaking to me through her poetry, reminding me of the beauty and wonder of life.