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Metaphor History Poems | Metaphor Poems About History

These Metaphor History poems are examples of Metaphor poems about History. These are the best examples of Metaphor History poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | Free verse |

Self reflection

Self-reflection is an art
A two edged sword that no one teaches
No religion philosophized
my own personal goal 
to better myself 
and understand everything 
by seeing one another 
through the slide of me 
through another’s eyes 
and that person 
through yet another’s eyes

Four good qualities you truly possess is where I start
The good things about me
Actually that’s a lie
That’s what I recommend
I usually get a little bit sad sit here and realize 
That I think I’m deep and no one understands

I know through self-reflection of understanding history
and putting myself in other peoples shoes
Like a mental actor of how I would feel emotionally and mentally
and then writing it down
is like self reflection but not quite
close but no cigar I have learned we are truly all actors and life is indeed a stage
And when we learn how to manipulate the greatest acts of man for the history 
The next generations will be taught in school how to prevent wars and live in 
piece by us selling one perfect life or lie
And I wonder if I’m a 27-year-old psychological lie of a ghetto wizard
I’ve described

Through self reflection I know they're are things I need to change
Some things I never will
Some things I am a part of
And at least the parts and pieces of my life I live like poetry that if they were 
captured like dreams in a butterfly net
They would teach something to the future like Jesus or anybody would if they 
Just how to self reflect emotionally mentally put yourself in another’s shoes and 
learn the lesson through writing a poem
or thinking it out

If each generation and the history books were all acts of men
and my generation has to top the last lie with a wisdom of the perfect metaphor 
to unlock the following generations thinking process
Is that the game of the planet?
Are those the reasons to the wars we fight today?
to teach tomorrow
When they write their essays that will become tomorrow’s politicians 
An insane asylum can teach politics and all we really want is to pay them to be 
rich and make global friends so we can have utopia
But in the history book of the essays they no longer write where life lessons were 
learned and taught through misfortune of man
there are gems to be uncovered of how to stop wars how to peace keep
How to mediate
How to live
How to heal
and every generation we discover it on our own as the teachers subtly shape our 

Copyright © Troy Nelson | Year Posted 2007

Details | Haiku |

Haikus About God: IV

God made all people
But some better than others?
Stop being silly.

Copyright © Dan Keir | Year Posted 2013

Details | Haiku |

Haikus About God: VI

The body: sacred
We’re all made in God’s image
Hence... circumcision?

Copyright © Dan Keir | Year Posted 2013

Details | Free verse |

World War - Benita Margaronis

RED  DOOR (collaboration)

by~ Benita Margaronis

War Of The World Death, pain, blood, 
Shell-shocked men, suffering and darkness. 
It's all they ever saw.  
Soldiers thinking about their lives.  
Rotting flesh and the whimper of dying men with their bodies half blown off.  
Other soldiers shooting them in the head to end their pain.   
The shattering sound of an explosive destroying life and more ground.  
Blood and body parts spray through the air and spread throughout the ground. 
Total emptiness and nothingness.  
Mounds and mounds of biting bodies and horses.  
Scattered planes, tanks, trucks and others.  
Burning guns and oil.  
Because the world went to war so much was lost for so little gain.  
The war of the world shall never be forgotten. 

by~ Poet Destroyer

War of the world Sacrifice.
Doors tainted red, tragedies never forgotten.
Mediterranean swept the soul of combatants without a word to say.
A war so defiant both sides lost more than humanity to each other. 
Prisoners, white flag surrendering, shot in the head with no remorse.
Brave soldiers wiping off the blood of their face like a tear.
Men in fetal positions crying hard like the day they were born for*mom-MA.
Soldiers pocket full of notes and dog-tags for a loved one.
Achievements that followed death without a mother's hand to hold.
Chaotic news and telegrams traveled without a moment to spare.
A flag brought to the door painted black.
Mothers falling to the floor broken hearted.
Because no one can mend the courage one gave to us today. 
The war of the world shall never be forgotten.

A collaboration with * Benita Margaronis

My collaboration contest

Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2011

Details | I do not know? |

Tomorrow is Ours

Tomorrow is Ours.

Suffocating beneath the weight of historical fear,
asphyxiated by the legacy of traumatised yesteryear,

the festering wounds of enslavement still remain,
juggling euphemisms in a crisp sound-bitten refrain,

spewing out neo-liberal economic charades,
doling out charity in strips of plastic band-aids,


tomorrow shall be ours,

casting away subservient mind-sets that shackle,
no longer the weakened prey of the insatiable jackal,

tomorrow shall be ours,

we shall reclaim our plundered mindspaces,
we shall shed our chains, leaving behind the traces,

of past injustice, of the hurt and pain of our ancestors' sorrows,

we are here, now, alive with hope,

we shall rightfully claim our own tomorrows.

Copyright © Scribbler Of Verses | Year Posted 2013

Details | Narrative |

The Wall

They looked destitute, desperate and worn-out
from the inside. Their spirit and pride was deflated
from within.

On the other end they saw their dreams chained
and buried in tombs, by people who claimed
were liberating them from darkness;
without their spirit, they were in the dark.

A wall was separating them from their presumed liberators;
the wall was invisible and high. The wall was in their thoughts...

Copyright © Teddy Kimathi | Year Posted 2016

Details | I do not know? |

May 1st 3025

May 1st 3025

They dug deep into the terre
And there,
There was something there.
Round in itself enclosed and round
Like a small solid stone rolled into a nugget
and discarded, over time
like a lost bent silver sixpence thrown clumsily
down a long forgotten wishing well.

The whole hole was dug.
And down, down and down
through the layers 
This small orb
lay in wait, shimmering
as if uneasy in its new home.
Sacred like a lost find.
A time capsule
encapsulating time.
They all teared up and
they gathered round.
Next to it
an excavated mound.
Gently they lifted it
and held it up to the sun
as if to make an offering
There at the bottom
an indentation.
Which unmade the purity
of the round

July 4th 1972

In his car he rolled
down his window.
Pushed-in his eight track 
till it clicked.
Lit up a cigarette.
Turned up the volume.
Took a last chew.
And spat gum on the ground.
And then he kissed her 
and told her he loved her.

Copyright © Tony Kirk | Year Posted 2015

Details | Rhyme |

My Footprints

It's not footprints that we should be talking about -
They’re personal – my footprints, bold and giving,
Which shape me, make me me - who I am:
They're not Jesus’s, the king of living.

Your personal history partly determines your life,
Helps you, or makes you want to overcome,
Makes you want to become who you want to be,
Because I'm more than just my history’s sum. 

The Jesus that we know is a universality:
Communal, all-knowing and immortal;
But that I evolved and am part of humankind,
Gives me purpose and a rather large portal.

Individual responsibility makes the criminal weep:
His actions are only his, there's no leeway;
It gives the success story her satisfied smile,
At past determination in her disbelieving day. 

Existentialism posits we each exist without divinity,
As self-sufficient entities with meaning as your call;
Supernature strokes the ego, fondles the pride,
So just believe in atheism and be relational to all. 

In Mary Stevenson’s Footprints poem, 
Jesus carries you, with his footprints in yours;
But I think my role-models, physios and teachers,
Along with myself, carried me in theirs!

Copyright © Rhoda Monihan | Year Posted 2015

Details | Free verse |

Old Bridges Torn Down

They lie asleep
With no wheels ajar--
No turning of the sky
Awaits their doom.

Rusty is the color
Of the painted steel.
Long lost to beauty
But yet a certain charm

Reveals them to pleasure
Of the eye.
Born to support more than
Their own; lofty it seems

Above the roiling water.
Old bridge-wood knew
Rolls and rolls, uneven
Tires and spikes of steel.

Have you heard the rattling
Of the bridge through time
And times evolution being
More than clock?

Walk no more here
Where paths no longer cross,
And barefoot boys 
No longer fish with worms.

A certain flood came down
Muddy and swirling,
Logs afloat and rolling,
Bumping like friends.

Such dents appeared as to
Surprise the passerby
Who appraised the steel
And rubbed the wood.

The river was raging, raging.
Time was passing, passing,
Rolling with a certain humility
Toward uncertain breathing.

They plucked the planks
And cut the steel with fire.
They hauled away the years
And blotted out the span.

Copyright © Bill Yates | Year Posted 2015

Details | Tanka |


birth, creation, dark, death, earth, history, metaphor


Very green flushed carpets
Sky blue azure topped ceilings
Tree branched sofa chairs
Mirror sea rippling four walls 
Windows and doors shut!


Infant birthing new 
Into mankind-likened modes
Start fresh from homed sights
Cultured to suckle blind
On natures ‘tested’ recollected notes
Left ‘one on one’ in thought sense!

Earth’s Time Shares  © TANKA

Earth imploding ‘noted’
Fished from science scales to date
Attention everyone
Demise for man’s brutal act
Shrinks to pin-head size! 


Caterwauling winds
Float the once settled landfills
Forming 'blocks' of sand
Balanced on set place-mats
Dwindle down to nothings. 


Salt beds remain ‘still’
Air-dried salt mines reap
Sea tides, air-dried onto land
Leave the needed salt shares
Flavour  'salted' dressings over time
Enhance life’s food plate!


Too many thoughts stockpile
Hanging words staged 'left'
Rehashed until spent
Sending 'mood-eating’ topics 
To announce ‘inner’ moon ‘tides’! 

Unity bids man
Into work managed mindsets 
Oiling the forces ‘toil’
Producing metal and brawn
Empires bleed open! 


Brain building 'strides' learnt
Leg and body builds in time
All in a heady breath count
Balanced events mate
Affecting lifespan!

Copyright © Diane M Quinlan | Year Posted 2015

Details | Free verse |

The Glass Goddess

All around me
Great cities made of sand.
Green sky scrapers poke through the ground 
To thrive in life’s strict conditions
And melt away with the tide…

Great houses made of cards
Form lines, and tightrope walk existence,
Knowing that any moment, the wrong brick may fall
And buckle our world to its knees
As Mother Earth shouts Jenga! from the sidelines.

So while were here
We dance with the Glass Goddess 
Poised miles above reality,
Leaping over the heavens on our domino stilts-

We floor it in the sky
Living death in the fast lane, 
Seizing the day
Because any moment 
We could disappear 

Jacob Reinhardt	

Copyright © Jacob Reinhardt | Year Posted 2013

Details | I do not know? |

The Petty Posh-WahZee - Liberation and Ostentation

The Petty Posh-Wahzee - Liberation & Ostentation

The Not-So Distant Past:

The fallen fighters for freedom, are unable to turn in their graves,
their battered, fragmented bones, mixed with a handful of torn rags,
are all that remain, a mute reminder of their selfless valiant sacrifice.

They endured brutal Apartheid harassment, detentions without trial,
torture in the cells, and mental anguish when loved ones disappeared,
they left their homeland, to continue the struggle against racial bigotry,
while countless others fought the scourge of white-minority rule at home.

Nelson Mandela and many, many others, spent their lives imprisoned,
on islands of stone, and on islands of the cruellest torture, yet they stood,
never bowing, never scraping, they stood, firm for ideals for which they were prepared to die,

and many, many comrades did die, at the hands of the callous oppressor,
and many, many comrades perished in distant lands, torn from their homes,
while the struggle continued, for decades, soaked in blood, in tears, in pain.

The Present:

19 years have passed, since freedom was secured at the highest of prices,
delivering unto us, this present, a gift of emancipation from servitude,

a freedom to walk this land, head held high, no longer second-class citizens,
in the land of our ancestors, whose voices we hear and need to heed today.

I do not care much for fashion, Lewis-Fit-On and Sleeves unSt.-Moron,
yet the ostentation that I witness baffles even my unsophisticated palate,

our ancestors' plaintive whispers are being dismissed, left unheeded, as
we browse the aisles for more and more, always for more and yet more.

Asphyxiated by the excess of the Petty Posh-Wahzee, we find ourselves,
perched precariously on the edge, of a dissolution of all that is humane,

babies go hungry, wives are battered, our elders left in hospitals for hours,
I cringe as I scribble these words, perhaps too sanctimonious and preachy,

yet I know, deep in the marrow of my brittle bones, I know, I know, I know,
this tree of freedom planted by the nameless daughters and sons of Africa,

needs to be shielded, nurtured, protected from our very own baser impulses,
so that the precious tree of freedom, may bear the fruit that may feed us all,

for if not, then we are doomed, to tip over, and into the yawning abyss, we shall fall.

Copyright © Scribbler Of Verses | Year Posted 2013

Details | Haiku |

Le Vacance Pretentieuse: Storm Part V

The English weather:
Rainclouds follow us from home
There is no escape.

Copyright © Dan Keir | Year Posted 2013

Details | I do not know? |

The Sieve of Time

The Sieve of Time

Cast ashore,
along the banks of time,

whirling through the passing years,
clinging to my futile scribbles set in rhyme,

Cast ashore,
thrust into an unrehearsed pantomime,

clenching slivers of joy as weariness descends,
lulled into a peaceful slumber exhilaratingly sublime.

Cast ashore,
hazily adrift, a dandelion seed on the wings of time,

trapped in the sieve of spiralling memories,
caught between pristine bliss, and reeking slime.

Cast ashore,
flung aside for no discernible crime,

my human heart thuds with elusive hope,
though battered, bruised, and covered in grime,

I stagger ashore, 


embracing each moment of detached, oblivious time.

Copyright © Scribbler Of Verses | Year Posted 2013

Details | Narrative |

The Wheel is Always Turning

“The time hath come,” the prophet said,
“To see what concerns tomorrow,
Shall it become of many happy things
Or shall it be of sorrow?”
Then the prophet said, as he looked ahead
Into the mist that was returning,
“Ah! I now can see the future crystal clear,
For the wheel is always turning!”

“The time is now,” then the prophet said,
“For us to see what fires are burning,
But are not our passions lit from times before
In the process of our learning?”
Then the prophet said, for he’d looked ahead,
“Lo’ the past is yet returning,
And thus tomorrow lies under familiar skies
For the wheel is always turning!”

“The time hath come,” the prophet said,
“If you understand my meaning,
To dispel those times of despair and dread,
As toward the past we yet are leaning!”
“O’ the time hath come!” the prophet said,
“To prevent the past from returning,
But today ‘is’ what was, and what ‘is’ shall be,
For the wheel is always turning!”

Copyright © Robert Liam McCallum | Year Posted 2015

Details | Lyric |

Pledge Not The Allegiance

It's the third verse,
I got the urge to purge
All the curt words I've splurged,
I've submerged in sin,
I'll go to church repent,
Then go curse again,
Lets reverse this trend
We nurse tolerance,
When it might offend,
If I white wash my fence,
So try to not get tense,
When I do not defend, 
Those who chose to be dense
And not use their two cents,
To show kids the reverence,
For the pledge of allegiance.

Copyright © Mike Conway | Year Posted 2013

Details | Epic |

Roman Empire

Collapsed so they say long ago
due to Cleopatra’s long nose
that pierced a General’s heart
got him stuck there in love
till the army was demolished
what terrible accident in history!

Every man, every women
big, small, learned or never
empires, kingdoms, nations
a Cleopatra with long nose
will appear from no where
to intercept and bury surely
things that matter in life
Crumbling effects she brings
the way of life in this world
a mystery it is, doubt you may
but we all live in the world
we know not its laws of work
finger-crossed and dumbness
are the ways but not the habit

Copyright © Solomon Ochwo-Oburu | Year Posted 2017

Details | Free verse |

Weeks Revealed As Troglodytes

I woke up this morning
Tired as a wolf-hound
After the chase.
The day is as stark
As an unfinished concerto.

Mondays are like that,
They are the beginning--
An unwrapped gift.
The weekend is an abandoned beach
And dirty snow pushed aside.

A new and well-oiled axle is turning.
My wheels are turning.
It is a time for molding,
For casting lots across a Persian rug.
We gather up the days as we go along

And nurture them like fools.
Every week the tide washes away the old debris
And pushes new refuse upon the sand.
Picking litter is the lot of those 
Inclined to service,

Always scrubbing tidy rooms.
Troglodytes wait to be remembered
Under the pick of a rock hound.
The seeker finds fossils from the past,
And the hours pass unnoticed.

Copyright © Bill Yates | Year Posted 2015

Details | Didactic |


The king is dead! Long live the king!
History of rulers is no different from ordinary mortals,
The crowns and kohinoors travel from one head to another uneasier head.
Emperors, Monarchs, Kings, Pharaohs abdicated
By methods natural and unnatural,
Thrones usurped, kingdoms conquered, succession relinquished,
For the joy of wealth, and its superpowers that comes in accompaniment,
And then leaving it all to turn to ruin with their own sudden deaths.
Greed, fraud, forgery, continues with its undying hunger,
Kith and kin scoffed, rebuffed and disowned from their own rights,
Temporal power is misconceived by these mortal gods,
Ethics and integrity scaled down by their unregretful smirky smiles
And then these Mammons roll on and swim in this new founded wealth,
For they know not Gods do watch them, and with one hack will level it all.

Balveen Cheema
August 20, 2015

Copyright © Balveen Cheema | Year Posted 2015

Details | Verse |

Le Vacance Pretentieuse: Dessert in the Deserted Desert

Boiling, baking and blazing,
               Other synonyms for heat.
My camel is happily dazing,
	He was not a restful seat.
Poolside I’ll later be lazing,
	Resting my sunburnt feet.
Air conditioning is amazing,
               Ice cream is a lovely treat.

Copyright © Dan Keir | Year Posted 2013

Details | I do not know? |

I Stand, Alone

I stand, alone.

Scratching for my truths,
peeling away the veneer,

I stand, alone, before this
impregnable cliff so sheer.

Cocooned in my solitary shell,
wrenching a smile from a tear,

I stand, alone, a little odd,
and definitely quite queer.

I stand, alone.

Copyright © Scribbler Of Verses | Year Posted 2013

Details | I do not know? |

For Primo Levi

For Primo Levi

it darkened more
as light shone through
and the haunting past stabbed

you felt
silently the blind were led
'thieves' you called them
emerging from nowhere
yet everywhere
'thieves' you called them
no one
yet everyone
you felt

you left

Copyright © Scribbler Of Verses | Year Posted 2013

Details | I do not know? |

For Aung San Suu Kyi

For Aung San Suu Kyi

you remained unyielding
bruised by their bayonets of power
you remained unyielding
gagged by their coarse brutality
you remained unyielding
today you return
and we salute
your spirit
that remained
and remains

Copyright © Scribbler Of Verses | Year Posted 2013

Details | I do not know? |

MLK - 1929 - 1968

(January 15, 1929 – April 4, 1968)

they shot you down
all those years ago


your dream lives on
and always will

for though much has been
gained since you dreamed
your dream

there is much to fight for
and much more to struggle for

and much, much more
to fight for still

your dream resounds in
our hearts and we pledge 
this to you today
for though they shot you down
all those years ago on a memphis day
we shall overcome
this we do believe
deep in our hearts
we shall overcome

(for Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.)

Copyright © Scribbler Of Verses | Year Posted 2013

Details | Nonet |

Father of Independence

“Father of Independence”                Nonet Poetry

General Aung San was a hero  		
and father of independence   		 
of our country of Myanmar.   		
Aung San fought the British  		
and went to london           		
to claim freedom.            		  
He was killed                		
by the                       		
written by: Dr Ko Ko Thein
            Salt Lake City

Copyright © Mya Thein | Year Posted 2013

Details | Free verse |

There Is No Now

The pollution is psychedelic
Hell, you could even say poetic nature
Terms of enragement
Definitely not engagement
Can suffice in describing the depredation

Fire from the skies
Burning through the system
Dropping through to nothing
Learning not what’s in them
Always running from them

We may hide our voices
But you hide your souls
Torturing us with woes
Never able to feed our hole
Scars bleed out like coals

Paint it any color you like
Doesn’t change a thing
This war that you’ve brought forth 
Has killed us all
In the past and future

There is no now…

Copyright © John Paluszek | Year Posted 2013

Details | I do not know? |



The caustic tongues of the evangelists,
Across all creeds and faiths,
Seem as brittle as an old bone.

For they promise heaven and they spew forth threats of hell
While neglecting the words of that man who walked in Galilee

'let him who is without sin, cast the first stone'

the caustic tongues of the evangelists...

across all religions
new-age and the ones of old
baffle me even as I hear
a single simplistic sermon

for they really do, view us all
as blind imbeciles
scurrying around like faithless vermin

the caustic tongues of the evangelists...

wag on and dazzle us with visions of an eternal paradise
while here and now
their hypocrisy festers
within their earnest
well-meaning eyes...

'...dil mein hai khwaaish-e-hoor-o-jannat
aur zaahir mein shauk-e-ibaadat
bas hamen sheikh-ji aap jaise
allah-waalon se allah bachaaye...'

'...in your heart you desire the maidens of heaven
yet in the now you practice the rituals of piety
o' sheikh, may allah protect me
from the people of allah like yourself...'

is my tongue as caustic as the tongues I write about?
if so, then glad am I
for they shouldn't be the only ones
who preach and rant and continually shout

from their pulpits ever so high in the sky
from their hubris of comfort in possessing the 'truth'

from their 'knowing' that heaven or hell
awaits both the strong as well as the meek

while oblivious to the reeking foul smell
that encourages prejudice and hate
and visions not of peace
but of endless chants and prayers

which they, in their opium haze
rattle on and on
as they never seem to cease to speak

and though I’m sure that all this bile that I have spewed
will threaten
and offend

friend and
unfriend and
acquaintance alike


take pity on me instead
for it'll surely be I
who'll burn eternally
impaled by a benevolent god
on a slightly warmer than normal day in hell

on a crude wooden spike.

Copyright © Scribbler Of Verses | Year Posted 2013

Details | Free verse |

Captain Bostock's Jungle Bungle

The Coney Islands new(est) attraction arrives!
The Dreampark delivers drollness inside, a guaranteed grin.
Mr. Bostock trains with the wildest of beasts.
Eating seated with bears, slacks on them creased with a hat!

Positively the most wonderful and fierce!
Of animal exhibitions that’s sure to pierce, eyes in awe.
Mr. Bostock guarantees a thrill.
For 25 cents your night we fill, with astonishment!

Elephants, lions, tigers, and goats!
A merriment carnival of wonder we tote, on coney isle.
Mr. Bo escapes the viscous bites.
Escaping death every night, amusing you!

Seating opens at 5 to 6!
The monkey collects money for tricks, at the gate.
Don’t be late and miss the fun.
Our menagerie is sure to stun, without debate! 

Arrive if you like on a goat carriage bike!
Or have a pale ale imported from Wales.
Mr. Bo’s jungle, is sure to stir rumble, tonight.
Come see his convivial companions, in sight! 

Coney Isle strives to curb daily strife!
Limitless boundaries to your delight.
Can promise you won’t leave contrite.
Tonights the night, turn frowns upright.
Now that’s a bargain to cure your smite, right?

Copyright © Nicholas Rush | Year Posted 2015

Details | Free verse |


What will you leave behind? 
What will people remember you for? 
What moments do you want people to remember you by? 
Are you happy of where you are now? Or are you working towards something that will help you achieve your goals in the future? 
What can you do to get to where you want to be? --To be someone that others will look-up to? 
When you see your own reflection, what/who do you see? 
--Do you see someone who will do anything to get to where they want to be? A fighter who will face any obstacle, trial, and hindrance along the path less traveled? 
--Do you see someone who is unsure of where to go. . . indecisive, apprehensive, unmotivated to explore? 
--Do you see the same person that once stood in the same place, oblivious of tomorrow, carefree, relentless to be who they want to be. .  guided by the ones whose hands are calloused from scraping every minute of every hour just so you could survive another day? 
Who will remember you once you've gone away? 
Who will remember your smile, your laughter, the way you look, the way you move? 
Who will be there to stand beside your remnants, to clean your eternal bed? 
When are you going to set your foot-print on unknown territory? 
When are you going to make this day last longer as to fill more sand in the hour glass? 
Why do you matter? 
Why do you live? 
How are you going to live a better life than yesterday? 
Like diamonds, do you wish your history to last forever? 
What are you hungry for?
What will be your last words? 
What . . .will you. . . leave behind?

Copyright © Jesson Rata | Year Posted 2015

Details | Free verse |


THE REST IS HISTORY one moment in time transformed life’s rhythm and rhyme guises and gusts brushed fresh pages like leaves on new landscapes changed forever until nothing of the past remained diminutive heat snuffed to the quick then reclaimed igniting radiance striking picturesque stars of quartz… began to court lighthouses on distant beaches ships passing in nights take flight drift then soar new heights painting prose in precious praise shifting shorelines changing times tide floating emotions hang breathless with every word a foundation sustaining maintaining survival mode pages on stages ages and phrases printed perfection engraved in this exquisite delicate creative maize mornings of glory nights of requisite dreamed feeding on images aiming to please swimming through ‘Corel’ reefs of perfection his supplication her appreciation a tap dance a ballet a salsa a tango a moonlit fandango diving deep seeking oysters precious pearls that appease… the rest is history © Kim van Breda—1 November 2015

Copyright © Kim van Breda | Year Posted 2015