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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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I can still hear the rumbling and drilling sound of the machine rubbing against the trees, and the dust absorbing the penitent wisdom of the futile murder scene. The loop bends solemnly underneath the fence and the rope swinging pitifully from the mercury head. I can still hear desperate voices calling out for help as I watched the traffic parachuting a hundred miles per hour along the forbidden edge, and the music playing softly in the deep resonating a message that is very unique. I kept following the sound hoping that it would take me where nature is bound but the cloud hanging above the mystical ocean without questions has suddenly become my innate passion and discovered the hidden wealth bottled up within me. I stood on top of the pinnacle, and watched them scrambling around tirelessly in the open dessert, and the sweltering heat hitting against their bareback and perspiration dripping from their make shift frocks. As far as the light in my eyes could reach I behold glimpses of shadows strolling in long line across the desert resting occasionally on borrowed time. As the night presses upon their head, torches of hope pushes them along relentlessly into the open bed but destiny opens is arm. It’s not the sound that perplexed me, it is the messages that it saturated in the air round about me, and the distance sounds disseminating in the open space is preparing me for another race, and in the middle of it all my spirit still stands tall. The wind drifts slowly along with the blind folded figure head singing a deceptive song, the drilling is in the rhythm the knocking is in the singing, and the hymn is wearing a shoe that has screws. The chronicle has disappeared, and the hopping, and the skipping the mocking and the jeering reappeared, a decade of unused stones piled up in a sitting gown wearing a brand new crown. They come from Denmark and they come from France and in the middle of Viking spree the Norwegians, sweated in the third degree. I could have penetrated the sound from the musical clowns but the timeless music from the street ascended into the hills, and captures the moment with a sudden chill and the merciless wind arose from the ground and cover the street with human bones.

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The Merciless Breeze

I can still hear the rumbling and drilling sound of the machine rubbing against the trees, and the dust absorbing the penitent wisdom of the futile murder scene. The loop bends solemnly underneath the fence and the rope swinging pitifully from the mercury head. I can still hear desperate voices calling out for help as I watched the traffic parachuting a hundred miles per hour along the forbidden edge, and the music playing softly in the deep resonating a message that is very unique. I kept following the sound hoping that it would take me where nature is bound but the cloud hanging above the mystical ocean without questions has suddenly become my innate passion and discovered the hidden wealth bottled up within me. I stood on top of the pinnacle, and watched them scrambling around tirelessly in the open dessert, and the sweltering heat hitting against their bareback and perspiration dripping from their make shift frocks. As far as the light in my eyes could reach I behold glimpses of shadows strolling in long line across the desert resting occasionally on borrowed time. As the night presses upon their head, torches of hope pushes them along relentlessly into the open bed but destiny opens is arm. It’s not the sound that perplexed me, it is the messages that it saturated in the air round about me, and the distance sounds disseminating in the open space is preparing me for another race, and in the middle of it all my spirit still stands tall. The wind drifts slowly along with the blind folded figure head singing a deceptive song, the drilling is in the rhythm the knocking is in the singing, and the hymn is wearing a shoe that has screws. The chronicle has disappeared, and the hopping, and the skipping the mocking and the jeering reappeared, a decade of unused stones piled up in a sitting gown wearing a brand new crown. They come from Denmark and they come from France and in the middle of Viking spree the Norwegians, sweated in the third degree. I could have penetrated the sound from the musical clowns but the timeless music from the street ascended into the hills, and captures the moment with a sudden chill and the merciless wind arose from the ground and cover the street with human bones.