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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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required In three billion years the sun dies, Earth with it and the ring around Saturn too. When will the apple fall? Will it fall close or roll? The apple rots eventually, the tree forgets and fly’s brains are too minuscule to understand at all how to mourn. Grey hairs mean death. It starts with the milk teeth twisted out, in blood and pain - experience is necessary for the end, I suppose. How feelings infect the stomach then implode in a cloud of stardust that consumes Neptune’s ice cold handshake. All this inevitable, repeatable for a few billion years. And yet we worry of what is to come in the next fifty or so. A death in the family - dominoes topple. A spanner in the gut that wrenches and pulls and ties in knots all coherent thoughts. A language of dashes and dots rattles with haste before the soul, mind, brain, spirit, heart and living tissue rots. All the while pulsars rotate with a common rhythm but how beautiful it is that we must do the same: To live and to breathe and to walk amongst start dust we must all just be dying stars. A second in a black hole bends to a year. A neutron star collapses a decade to a minute and we worry when or why or how the future may proceed. As does Mars when his soul settles down and he marries, starts a family, then worries of his daughter’s daughter’s marital status. The apple that hit the nail on the head rolled down the hill and was kicked into space to orbit, forever, Gaia’s deepest woes. The same dust that it conceived flows through our veins today. The pulsars vision of a continued rhythm is humanity’s constant dream. All cosmic terror and dread, worries the same as an apple that is used to be bitten, a human that is conceived to indulge themselves in a pool of lifelong anxiety and a pulsar dreading the next time it beats. That beat may never come.
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