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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Breathing on Ashes Slope
Written: July 19, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Rob Carmack Quote "The eye goes blind when it only wants to see why" by Rumi ****************** I stood while Genesis breathed, a slope of cinders, forged from death. Youth splashed sludge on my skull kismet resonated ahead. I ventured beyond the silk of youth— It's homaloidal gilded ignorance that twinkled, such coins bestowed upon sages who sleep serenely. Years drifted by, and you—silent, unyielding—revealed to me a truth that seared my sight. Every heart, enshrouded in perfumed decay, bloomed hauntingly into the grotesque. What once appeared noble waned into a crass pantomime. My soul recoiled. Disgust surged as steam from my spine a silent scream echoing in the sanctuary. My spirit began to perceive— not with eyes, but through scars. The past stood trial, In the dunes of memory: red sand, marked with conviction I had carved it. unaware. Now the only way back resounds such a distant sonata: God calling, igniting a raw fire upon the canvas of my marrow. It will never be free. Redemption, such as art, always costs everything. Each season claimed something: a name, a promise, a breath. I rose once more. each time leaning deeper on the wood and nails of the betrayal. The books of Heaven are laden with mystery. I grasp betwixt lines— three measures of leaven, hidden in the folds of endurance. And belief— neither feeling, nor certainty— begins to underpin the slow unraveling of sorrow. I am not finished. The struggle It's never around victory— but through clinging fiercely to the Word when the world let's pass.
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