Best Artlost Poems


Elven Musing

The magic of the moment lost in fog
Retains a sinful wishing of itself
To sit beside a busy little elf and ask an inane question for the joy

To watch a quick confusion raise a doubt
As ageless pointed ears twitch curl annoyed
What was it I was thinking of before
I turned and saw this figure at my door?

Just standing oh so tremble and demure
And then she smile and I was lost, asea
To wonder where or whether I could be
So far adrift and lost as lost could be

Although the elf is laughing. full of glee
All is not really lost. She married me.

Synthetic Selection

Explode the galaxy
iron out this wrinkle in time

Cheapen a poor mans rich taste in fashion
it’s habit to be a creature of design

When the delicate send out the search party
start by scanning the various roadsides
follow the stench of day old regret 
that should lead in right to my location

Where have I landed?
A strangers planet Earth?
A manic depressives getaway?
A lunatics wet dream?

Drain the oceans 
bleed the kids on the mountain
the formidable foes of the knife I haven’t sharpened yet
jam packed arenas stocked with fresh meat
I’ll start at the bottom

-The Man-
The man holds the hand of his wife 
greeting me with a reverse handshake
Something grainy about his personal life
leaked into his lovers tears
it sure as hell isn't this lady on his arm

Rinse his eyes in a river of lust only to let him see what he's done has scorched the Earth
straying too far from...

Rid you
Burn

The scum secretes 
my head can't take much more of this eyesore
total eclipse of his soul has begun

Next up...

-The Harlot-
The girl holding the rose laughing
she’s breeding an uncanny look of impurity

Nothing perverse about what I’m thinking 
it’s what she is

Spreading a soil around the town that reeks
a forked road where she walks down the handle
nothing she won’t do 
nothing she won’t take or see 

Come here and meet me in the middle 
there aren’t so many eyes here
I’m sure this won’t be the most popular of assassinations
everyone likes a harlot

Excitement stimulates  
Diseases decimate
Make up your minds

-The Vagrant-
Traveling on web feet has begun to hurt his ego
burn his shoes and prick at the calloused soul of a man ravaged by nothing

Pity is lost on skin without purpose
throw a penny at something that begs
spare a nickel for a chosen profession

Demon in disguise if you ask me

Blameless self de-evolution personified in a cardboard box
warming themselves with headlines and bold ink
Cold?
Maybe
Alas, what I do must be done
It's a thirst unquenched by a common liquid and if not
then innocence is lost in a blink of an eye

Explode this galaxy
iron out this wrinkle in time

The Art Has Left the Building

Binge
fringe
benefits

At the edge of the world you’ll lose hope
At the edge of a needle you’ll regain consciousness
Supposedly
it’s a gash
a wider know it all grasping at straws that stick to his skin like follicles of dead hair

The art is lost 
the lost becomes transient before it even knew it was gone

There he is again
pumping veins and proud
said aloud

We are the most beautifully mistaken creatures allowed to hold pens

Not everyone believes 
that anyone achieves
happiness through sadness
vice versa and this and that

Sadness through experience
and life through damages

No one gets happy any other way
until they jump another day


Addicted Ghosts

Light breaks from the moon's circle ring like a diamond
Directing magic streaks in the sea waters
Bewitched the Double Decker surfaces with ghosts
Manning the sails and wheels in pirates’ glee:

A few hours with the stars and open waves
Searching for a lonely lost merchant ship
Carrying chocolate crumbs and fermented kedged beer
Unseen they submerge to their liar with their prey.

New ship lost to navigators’ addicted tracks?
For now none dare to cross this channel again.

Picture Prompt:-

http://fantasyartdesign.com/free-wallpapers/imgs/mid/483d-ghost-ship-poster-m.jpg
© Jai Garg  Create an image from this poem.

Lost

Lost a word which has pain,
Desperation, hoplessness, unhappyness in it.
You feel pain when you lost yor love ones.
You feel desperation when you lost your hops.
You feel hoplessness when you lost blessness of God.
You feel unhappiness when you lost your dreams.
You feel heartbrocken when you lost your true love.
Lost is a little word which has wast meanings.
© Imr Urooj  Create an image from this poem.

Knife Point Pen

Still was the ink, and I stared into the black liquid to create
Looking in it I saw a thousand memories, a few smiles, yet a huge volume of sorrow
Dipping the sharp steel end of my pen into it, I felt a few tears reach my lip, salty bitter taste
Dreams fell, and hope lost itself in my infinite memory, all lost in tomorrow

As I piece my soul back together I see the unknown come to life
I run again, I run to hide from all my trouble, yet I run face to face into strife
Will the ink dry to fast, as to impede me from delivering my message
I write, I weep unto an empty piece of papyrus and I see not a message

Men seem to desire, yet have nothing to with aquire
The music flows in the open air, and still is the moral thougth by the chorus
I seeketh a true pen, a true companion to my inner poet, a pen to admire
Soft, gently running onto my papyrus

Kissing each word onto my papyrus, and speaking by my hand
Alone I find a wish once wished by my heart long ago and I write 
Will it be true, my wish come to me as I have come to you ever so right
I ran, an empty piece of paper followed, no message to be found, falling then I to the sand

I wrote with my finger, yet the wind swept soft the sand again no message there
Am I to be blocked unto this reality where one can not write, its not fair
See in my eyes, a powerful poem demands to be read
The ink dried, my message froze still, my pen was dead


Falling Bricks

From the blank book can I
lift some questions for the lofty hopes
when I lost myself near the home ?

The fear was darting inside the white sores.
Keys were lost for the answers
and truth fell castrated.

The magic was fading from the cusps
of designs, unconceived thoughts were
seeking proportionate punishments.

Congeniality drifted from the
architect of hominid species. A nameless
storm plays havoc. Humble peaks bow

before the unmeasured meteors. You
can shut the orphanage now; no
bombs are bound for the wet crypts.


Satish Verma

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