The city rises like a wall,
The city stares me down:
“Who are you, lost in smoke?
What battle do you wage?
All trains have burned away,
The rails have lost their age.
What brought you here to dust,
Having lost your place?”
We do not turn our eyes,
We do not reach for guns.
Enough of shouting lies —
Let falsehood turn to dust.
Our silent line moves on,
We simply keep our stride.
If all the world is strange,
Darkness won’t shift aside.
The night keeps watch downstairs,
The frozen building sleeps.
This is no heavy cross —
We’ll stand as two can stand.
The one who broke the lock
Borrows strength for a while.
The one who saved their love
Will outlast every prison.
The city will break the ice,
Cast off its borrowed face,
And finally understand
Who kept their eyes alive:
Not sellers of their flags,
Not generals of walls —
But those who, through the blindest season,
Never gave their souls away.
Author: Dmitry Lyubishkin
Nette Onclaud
EIGHT BY EIGHT
31 July 2026
Fog uncorks wet cedar perfume,
then pours it through each waiting lung
where moss rehearses nameless years
and bark remembers rain by scent—
until my breath is not my own
but loam translating root to blood,
as earth inhales itself through me
and leaves with my remembered breath.
The estranged mirror
is denied
The eye has no need
to watch itself
seeing
The hand feels
before
fingers probe
The sky
flies via the bird
The shore uncovers
the tide
The sea peers
through me
The leaf
borrows the breeze
The ring dispels
its bell
Time beats
hearts to
the throb
Stillness
simply is
Awareness
is within-ness
shared
spontaneously
Competence is seldom loud—yet confidence often is.
A charismatic smile may persuade a crowded room that wisdom has arrived,while judgment quietly waits outside.
Psychopathy,hidden beneath a layered mask,borrows the language of empathy without carrying its weight.
Its mirrors reflect only what others long to see.
The victim,neither wholly believed nor wholly forgotten,drifts between the sea and the sky—where truth dissolves into distance,and horizons become courtrooms of uncertainty.
To the practiced eye,the mask is never the face.
Charm is not conscience.
Persuasion is not integrity.
Performance is not compassion.
The sea remembers every foot print washed from its shore.
The sky remembers every silence that no witness heard.
And some where between them,where evidence struggles against illusion,stands the fragile human soul,waiting for perception to surrender to truth.
I have seen
his face
in New York City.
I have heard
his voice
in Europe.
He speaks
of love.
Yet practices
division.
He speaks
of human rights.
Yet strips others
of their humanity.
He speaks
of peace.
Yet profits
from war.
He sends armies.
He sends weapons.
And calls it
freedom.
He forces
democracy
upon others.
Yet rules
through fear,
power,
and obedience.
He pretends
to be a thinker.
Yet borrows
the wisdom
of others
and calls it
his own.
He speaks
of spirituality.
Yet worships
power.
Morning and night.
He preaches
virtue.
Yet walks
with hypocrisy.
His words
shine like gold.
But his deeds
cast shadows.
Then I walked
through the streets
of America.
And there
I met him again.
Smiling.
Confident
Speaking
with a forked tongue.
Promising hope.
Selling illusion.
Some say,
he will change.
But history
whispers otherwise.
For the devil
has always worn
many faces.
And the greatest trick
is not deception.
It is convincing
the world
that deception
is truth.
The devil
is a liar.
And sometimes
he walks
among us
wearing the mask
of virtue.
Rough and tumble like a wasp getting pulled into the sludgy earth.
Sleep and I.
Gave up twilight.
Separated.
We both eat butterfly legs or so we think.
Sleep and I tangle with other stuff like old coffee mugs with a musty smell.
And chalk boards in a secret room that I thought was hidden by keeping my eyes open.
I feast on whatever is left on the floor.
After most stuff sinks in.
Sleep borrows stuff like that.
Where do I start—and conclude—
The Shore eludes the Sea—
I touch myself in Emptyess—
Yet know not—which is Me—
The Thought that thinks—its own Beyond—
Returns—without a Name—
As Footsteps vanish in the Snow—
To prove the Walker—came—
My Beginning—leans on Yesterday—
My Ending—borrows Breath—
Between—a trembling Threshold—
That practices—its Death—
I am the Question—folded still—
Within the Answer’s seam—
A Circle—paused to wonder—
If Wakefulness—is a Dream—
So start I where the Limits blur—
And end—where I began—
A Fraction—learning Infinity—
By holding-- I am People thought—
At ten til two, some lie awake,
Attending too sighs we ruminate;
Ten and two, love drives to where sunlight hides and waits,
Yet in pursuit, nights erode of what chance may make.
Amending truths our tomorrows wake,
And then the soon borrows the hours late.
Despite red moons raising tides like fate,
Attentive proof reminds of the coming breaks.
We can never know of what tomorrow craves.
Certainty can speak with gentle lips, for words to slate;
What more can 2026 be other than its falling flake?
Rationality adores the harvests they slickly take,
And arrogantly still, I feel tomorrow's grip ought to be sold a bit too late.
’Tis but another tomorrow that hides among many tricks, where ideas apprehend our stakes.
It’s with hope that follows the light that empties their mix, so plans can lessen the opaque.
While tending to sleep to grow the want to wake,
Let this be proof to find of what I may create; I can shape.
The new year is all but a day, and with love I plague every chance I’m given to make new mistakes,
And of the new choices yet to decay.
2026, I have hope for your ache.
A Whisper moves among new Laws —
So gentle — but So grim —
They named it Mercy — softly said —
And closed the door — on Us—
The State that held the Needle poised
Once sharpened Rope — and Chair —
Now studies Sleep — with measured Hand —
And calls the Ending — Care —
A Vote — a Form — a quiet Seal —
No Gallows — no Alarm —
Yet Death — still wears Authority
And borrows Reason’s Arm —
Compassion — if it wear a Badge —
May learn to love Command —
For Power — once allowed to Choose —
Forgets the trembling Hand —
I ask no Drum — nor final Cry —
Only this small Dismay —
That those who practice killing Us
Grow practiced — day — by day —
For Slopes are not announced as such —
They feel like Level Ground —
Until the Living look behind
And find — they’re farther down —
Death has a pretty face
Plant a bed of roses
On my grave my dear
When death comes to greet me
And I’m no longer here
My life has been fulfilling
For I have loved you well
Death she is my sister
She borrows me a spell
I embrace the future
For I am not afraid
I don’t occupy a coffin
Or the ground where I am laid
Yes butterflies surround me
In paradise I roam
Death I do not fear her
For I am not alone
Plant a bed of roses
On my grave my dear
When death comes to greet me
And I’m no longer here
When Heaven’s gates are opened
and your time has come
I’ll be there to greet you
For that is where we’re from
We’ll dance amidst gardens
In that lovely place
No more pain or sorrow
Gone without a trace
When Death’s purpose is fulfilled
I pray she finds her rest
Her with that pretty face
Without her we wouldn’t be blessed.
The shadows wrap the earth in sleep,
The promises that I could keep,
Are fractured where the wounds are deep;
My womanhood felt lost and bare,
A ghost of what was once held there.
The gentle hopes I used to hold,
A future that I can't unfold,
A story left forever cold;
The silence where a child should be,
A haunting echo back to me.
But I look close within the night,
And find a new and fragil light,
My body fought with all its might;
These scars now draw a steady line,
A testament that I am mine.
The moon above is whole and bright,
It borrows strengthen from solar might,
And shows the darkness has no fright;
My beauty lives behind the veil,
Where spirit is what cannot fail.
A well of grace begins to flow,
A different kind of fertile glow,
The seeds of self I plant and sow;
The life I give is now my art,
A fiercely loving, open heart.
I am enough.
Betrayal's Hell
There seems to be no end to this eternal flame. It's bite on my skin, it burns with pain.
There was once hope, as bright as light, but now I am one that is cast out into darkness.
Betrayal's worm does borrows through my mind, Its memory stings. Its thoughts do sear.
I am now bound in betrayal's bottomless pit. Its weight, it does press against my chest. My bones, they are crushed beneath its shadow.
I am now in despair. I am in its tight grasp. Oh, the hell from betrayal.
ego borrows its power from the Self
in the harsh terrain of duality
resisting life’s breath flowing by itself
seeking for itself, immortality
recognising that ego feeds on thought
when resting in staid silence we are free
wayward ego tamed, we are then self-taught
whence with Self aligned, we roam earth carefree
we need mind to navigate this terrain
thus ego is an instrument we use
when we live in the moment, free from strain
the fragrance of love becomes our heart’s muse
relax dear soul, there’s nothing to be done ~
the Self alone is; God and we are one
When 'Faith' is naive,
It hurts and is void of wholeness
It pretends to, but doesn't heal
When 'Faith' is naive,
It refuses to search and question
It offers what it cannot deliver
When 'Faith' is naive,
It promises power and prosperity
It does not prize common sense
When 'Faith' is naive,
It does not promote examination
It poses a position of strength
When 'Faith' is naive,
It borrows from multiple religions
It produces dependency and weakness
When 'Faith' is naive,
It blinds the brain
and binds the soul
When 'Faith' is naive,
Beware the origin of its conception
Resist the power of its deception
When 'Faith' is naive,
It is empty of valuable substance
It is filled with desire and disappointment
Four and a half years ago we lost a fine poet,
a knightly gentleman, and a friend to many of us.
I'm reposting my tribute to him today.
Warrior is an adjective used for a hero or a knight
I knew one, briefly, whose wings have taken flight
Not just a fine poet was John, but also very kind
Generous and caring, is how he would be defined
Endearing was his 'love and light' message to all
Departed now, but his memory I will always recall
With words of tribute, I honor his humorous wit
Always a positive attitude, he was a candle ~ lit
Rest peacefully, ^WW^ ~ You're missed, my friend
Reflecting Ripples is a poem John sadly penned
In it he wrote about "shadows" and "silent sorrows"
Oh, If from fate, I could be the one who borrows
Respite from death, you'd have more tomorrows
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.