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Greeting Card Maker | Poem Art Generator

Free online greeting card maker or poetry art generator. Create free custom printable greeting cards or art from photos and text online. Use PoetrySoup's free online software to make greeting cards from poems, quotes, or your own words. Generate memes, cards, or poetry art for any occasion; weddings, anniversaries, holidays, etc (See examples here). Make a card to show your loved one how special they are to you. Once you make a card, you can email it, download it, or share it with others on your favorite social network site like Facebook. Also, you can create shareable and downloadable cards from poetry on PoetrySoup. Use our poetry search engine to find the perfect poem, and then click the camera icon to create the card or art.

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And there are not enough cubicles and grey paneling that sugar rock candy lights won’t cut the sapling eye from its still decline into Abyss. And there are not enough sad thoughts wars rapes to gratify inward hatreds which never walk the feather but mobilize the thousand marching whales across an entire worlds sandy interior. across every turtle egg. If there are secrets below us we are too many too numerously traveling a cacophonous tandem that secrets could survive our drumming lull. Surely we have broken all our secrets with our song. I hear only ever what anyone always forever has known. I have no doubt anymore. There is only sand below. No. The saddest days are behind in mouths of our trekking bedded with pruned flowers who wilted passing along the snaking vine of history which coils and dies as mast and pointed finger at every moment we recall our saddest days. But these days are not polished aged silvers of goals and just conquering, but like a sword waved through crowds at night where the tallest fell in heads and became mountainous cultures of sporadic hands where finally at this moment cresting backwards we see our ladder in dawn and it is blood. Every possible minute from every now onwards. Each point along stretches back marking the infinite fence of beginnings lamely ticked from the chain which links them. Such that as time leans in the depth of reflection, in the understanding of casual existence, of tragedy, everyday comedy — the noon will bite its appearance, and we will miss our lunch. Dry and sour throats work along this real thing. Where there was once water and loss Is the leftward image of death in decline. We are not so caring as to want for our lives. For as long as we want others, and acquire others, and drift from others — who were once familiars — only to drift back and want again, and not be in haste of charging this social pattern with contempt of experience; Of laughing at us, Doubting our depths, Then there is hope. If not, then we shall continue. But we will not have our sadness. We will dry our tears from each other And mask the body to wed from time. This tomb is a forever we would not escape. It is a death amidst the sand. The river awaits.

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The Saddest Days

And there are not enough cubicles and grey paneling that sugar rock candy lights won’t cut the sapling eye from its still decline into Abyss. And there are not enough sad thoughts wars rapes to gratify inward hatreds which never walk the feather but mobilize the thousand marching whales across an entire worlds sandy interior. across every turtle egg. If there are secrets below us we are too many too numerously traveling a cacophonous tandem that secrets could survive our drumming lull. Surely we have broken all our secrets with our song. I hear only ever what anyone always forever has known. I have no doubt anymore. There is only sand below. No. The saddest days are behind in mouths of our trekking bedded with pruned flowers who wilted passing along the snaking vine of history which coils and dies as mast and pointed finger at every moment we recall our saddest days. But these days are not polished aged silvers of goals and just conquering, but like a sword waved through crowds at night where the tallest fell in heads and became mountainous cultures of sporadic hands where finally at this moment cresting backwards we see our ladder in dawn and it is blood. Every possible minute from every now onwards. Each point along stretches back marking the infinite fence of beginnings lamely ticked from the chain which links them. Such that as time leans in the depth of reflection, in the understanding of casual existence, of tragedy, everyday comedy — the noon will bite its appearance, and we will miss our lunch. Dry and sour throats work along this real thing. Where there was once water and loss Is the leftward image of death in decline. We are not so caring as to want for our lives. For as long as we want others, and acquire others, and drift from others — who were once familiars — only to drift back and want again, and not be in haste of charging this social pattern with contempt of experience; Of laughing at us, Doubting our depths, Then there is hope. If not, then we shall continue. But we will not have our sadness. We will dry our tears from each other And mask the body to wed from time. This tomb is a forever we would not escape. It is a death amidst the sand. The river awaits.