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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Pages of Memory
I lose myself within the quiet frame of a dust-laden afternoon, where time once lingered on a bench in Regent's Park, silent, like rusted love that never found its shine. Today Mithila returned on the tide of memory. After so many years... it felt like the first awakening. The sky swirled with bruised-grey clouds. I stood among the shadows, a solitary silhouette holding the melody of a forgotten song. Walking through the green, I sensed the city knew nothing of the shadowed paths within me, where Mithila still wandered, carrying the fading echo of a sleepless voice. Memory split open, and childhood bloomed again, a torn afternoon petal where Mithila once touched the sun through my outstretched fingers in Regent's Park. Then, from the quiet province of memory, Mithila emerged like a mirage. Her eyes were fossils of a weary afternoon, her hair powdered with the ash of the wind, her lips sealed with the silence of sorrow. Face to face, no words... only two wandering gazes where infinite grief had made its home, like a name waiting through the centuries to be spoken. I held her presence close, no promises, no rehearsed farewell, only the breath between memory and silence, where an unseen forest kept growing inside my soul. Beside a quiet pond, I sat while swans performed their white illusions, and a cup of coffee held nothing but memory as lost hours drifted through the corners of my eyes. Mithila never spoke. Yet upon her fingertips was written the calligraphy of memory... a letter never opened, yet somehow always read in silent verses. Time arrived like mist upon a trembling dawn, slow, inevitable. She faded, and I became a traveller walking toward farewell without once looking back. On the last stair of Baker Street, I stood, listening not to the departing train, but to a forgotten melody playing one final time before my eyes could no longer hold their tears. The train departed... Within my chest, a hollow engine kept running... the unfinished manuscript of a love whose final page was never written.
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