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 There is a door no one speaks of. It is not built of stone, nor carved in the timber of old houses, but hidden deep in the marrow of the world where beginnings were never written, only uttered once by a voice that no longer is. Its wood does not creak, it sighs, like an old woman who’s forgotten why she still lives. Its grain is polished smooth by millennia, and in its knots you see the trace of fingers that never belonged to this world. On our side, all is as we know it: light drowned in dust, trees bare, arms lifted in prayer to heavens that have long since fallen silent. The windows of the houses — tired orbits, guarding a silence that neither kills nor forgives. Everything waits for something that no longer comes. Beyond, is the beginning before beginnings. A void taking shape, an air that tears your breath like a question asked too late. There are faces that barely exist, words that burn within but warm nothing. Each step is a vow. Each breath — a confession. Perhaps the door does not divide, but gathers the edges of life into a single ancient circle, like bread holds the scent of silent wheat, and memorial wheat holds the ashes of names never spoken aloud. It knows the thunder of horses from long ago, the unwritten language of grass, the steps of those who passed but never truly left. You feel them as you draw near: like a name whispered backwards, like a memory that isn’t yours and yet bends you from within. Touch it — and in your palm, you won’t feel wood, but roots. An old rustling, like a forgotten carol. A breath as long as an age. You stand there, not as a traveler, not as a witness, but as a dreamer caught between two worlds neither history nor faith can reconcile. And the door, does not open. Does not close. It simply watches. A cosmic eyelid, blinking once every thousand years. And when you truly see it, you see yourself: as you were before you became.
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