Death Dramatic Verse Poems | Examples
These Death Dramatic Verse poems are examples of Dramatic Verse poems about Death. These are the best examples of Dramatic Verse Death poems written by international poets.
Another "I Do," Another Pledge**
I found myself confronting mortality in the guise of the viper on the day my heart was irrevocably broken. Deep within, I understand that he liberated you, much like the Meadowlark’s song.
Once again, I utter "I do" and make another pledge. The deceitful viper adorned himself in the same black suit. He donned the colors associated with malevolence during this second endeavor, for it is indicated that "strait is the gate and narrow is the way."
His countenance radiates as he feigns a smile, resembling a contrived pose for the camera. I observed the specter of death in his expression, reminiscent of Pinocchio’s nose.
The well-wishers murmured, "No discernment; what a disgrace, what a waste! A lamentable image of a man." The pastor solemnly proclaimed, "Amen."
I perceived death upon the visage of the haunted individual. The fissures in the antiquated brick wall emitted a haunting melody: "You stand before the altar as yet another fool."
Is this a wedding or a funeral—an evening fraught with foreboding? The middle-aged groom reflects a decline in love and kindness. Love, indeed, is blind.
Mother lowers her sullen face
against a volatile wind,
tasting the insolence
of a heavy laden gust
As she heaves quietly
from musings of unaswered dreams
grating her senses -- hope clinging--
through pits of lonely thoughts
delicately cleansing snarled faith
and disheveled pauses...
where hours impairs near death
as uncertain answers grow pale
...Waking her slow breaths flowing
from tears... Dad in a stupor :
I dreamed within her own dream
a fervent wish of life restored
that she hears my silent words
her boney figure collapsing --
through the bleakest of bleak nights
numbed from pain ...from agony,
That under panels of glass,
...we clutch onto that wish for life
My dream blending with her plea...
and realize she has learned
to pray with me in the rain.
The Black Sea of Hostility**
I express no willingness to engage in the metaphorical black sea of hostility. It is a misconception to believe that individuals are born with fractured souls; rather, such conditions develop throughout one’s life.
One enters this world devoid of sin, possessing innate virtues and qualities. However, I am not inclined to accept an invitation to your table, where the tablecloth is whiter than the pristine blanket of snow on Monsanto Lake. I will not participate in such gatherings.
Your opulent Gorham silverware glimmers, reminiscent of clusters of grapes hanging from a mountain. Nevertheless, I remain disinterested in both swimming in this sea or dining at a table rooted in animosity.
The children raised in this environment are instructed to disdain the clergy. Meanwhile, violence stains the streets of northern communities as politicians indulge in lavish dinners costing $2,000 per plate. One must question who is safeguarding the gates of moral decay.
The realm of politics is indeed tumultuous.
Conversation With Relatives
Today, I feel an intense resolve. About two years ago, family members frequently shared news of someone's passing—whether it was from the village or someone I had once known. During those conversations, I would tense up and firmly request that they refrain from calling with bad news.
Death is a constant reminder, glaring at us from our calendars.
I recall a time when my neighbor had called to inform me that someone was outside my door, dressed in black, was banging on it.
My immediate thought was that the Angel of Death was seeking me out. In these pandemic days, he is everywhere, like an Amazon Prime van overshadowing UPS trucks.
While the world faces shutdowns, some individuals refuse to take it seriously.
They blatantly reject the vaccines, either out of selfishness or fear of death. It's essential to acknowledge that death will claim us all; poets write about it because they express truths that other forms of communication often miss.
As Lao Tzu stated, "A man with outward courage dares to die; a man with inner courage dares to live."
My mantra today is to seize each moment and live every day as if it's my last.
Saying Goodbye to a Web of Deception**
When did it become so effortless for him to weave his lies? Was it after their first anniversary, when the glow of their love began to fade? He meticulously plotted his betrayals, crafted intricate plans, and willingly cheated, transforming himself into a mastermind of deceit. Meanwhile, she wore her mask of a devoted mother and loving wife, concealing her pain as she smiled for their children. In public, she exuded warmth, but behind the closed doors of their home, she was a prisoner of her sorrow, tears streaming down her face in the silence of the night.
Then, that fateful summer night arrived—a turning point. She reached her breaking point and declared, “No more, no more.” When did it become so easy for him to betray the trust they once shared? Now, the scorned wife finds herself on death row, an ironic smile gracing her lips, revealing a chilling absence of remorse.
When did it become so simple to bid farewell to the tangled web of lies that defined her life?
I remember the land and its people, and I am concerned about the limitations of their mentality. I remember the dead and how the trees outlast them. I hear the language of the trees—the whispering sound of freedom and the resilience of human life, supported by the generosity of a mature land.
The wasteland we leave behind speaks volumes, even in silence.
You might see a simple grassy area;
I see a courtroom filled with conflict.
I see families battling over ownership and children fighting for their rightful place.
The land we abandon, even without words, understands its intrinsic value. How will you come to terms with yours?
Somehow, the deluge of cloudburst
unwraps my flesh pallid, as if to spill
holy water--maybe thickened dew—just
to give a name to lapses of my unheard cries,
while an insolent breeze fails to listen
as I howl in utter despair of life's requiem:
The thistle of wet soil chains my feet
anchored unto the swell of memories' bend;
remaining distant in an unknown,
vacant cemetery nourishing a loneliness
only vagrants like me could bear:
A scream of rain compels a thirst
to feed on abrasions of ghastly pang...alone,
isolated from new moonlight's lodging
my solitude, my invisible frame starts to sigh
behind the roughest of rain's marbled stone---
How can fresh mornings be so darn bleak?
Medals on frames stood upright and straight,
Like guns marching on bloody road to Death March
At eighteen, he bore the pellets of war’s cause
Fingers wounded by splinters from a grenade
Spawned by raw courage for freedom’s glory
He counted black hours guarding his troops;
Piloting aircraft and landing on muddy swamp
Worse was the order to kick his dead friend, Paul.
Black nights fed thinner ribs with brisk attacks
Riddling air with roulette of mortar sounds,
Yet country’s honor soared higher than gray winds
A testament for a man of lofty ideals.
Tales of grit, battle scars wrapped in dignity
A body resting on heroes’ graveyard, our flag rising;
Until the end, code of gallantry filled life’s moments
Of one general, dear Dad, your spirit walks with me.
2nd place
They say that those in hell won't come back. Internally in pits of darkness, it's the hardest thing to break someone free.
Wanna hear about the night that Chris Nielson died? Wanna hear about the night his wife Annie couldn't take anymore, the night Annie's mind got fried?
Both of them trying not dwell and continue to live. Both of them forced to celebrate triple D day, with so much more to give.
Chris enters first, seeing all the beauty and wonders just beyond the gate. Searching for something familiar, searching for his kids, he soon learns their fate.
Annie can't deal with the grief. Annie decides to take her own life. She finally had the last cut. They finally pulled her last straw, taking her title as a wife.
Chris can't let this be he won't her rest until home. With a heart so pure, a love so deep, he will never be alone.
To be loved this much, to be cared for more. The only hell Chris knows is a world without Annie. What a bore.
One takes what does not belong
In depths of darkness, moonlight night
Daylight's ruins, breathless soul it feeds
Our demeanor broken beneath the flesh
Heart broken, emotion of evil devour
Hurt tortures as if death appeared
Stolen, denied life's promised ambition
They rove, benign behind the face
Thieves of the heart, robbed life's expectations
Our soul torn, prod like a dead animal
Killed senselessly, even words cut a rip
To satisfy their own needs, thieves of the heart
At the hands of greed, selfishness of desire
Like a ghostly wind, a whisk and gone
What is it we believe, life or death we follow
Graves dug everyday, even ourselves a wall
No man kill the bee, they just want the honey
In us we live without remorse to consequences
Always taken granted, we destroy all we live
Human sacrifice or Earth's expense the price
Thieves of the heart, denial to God's creation
Mortality of mankind questioned morals
Or their own doing to devastation of death
Two thieves hung but only one went to heaven
Be it choice, what life you lead to another
That you even steal from yourself lifeless soul
But another, you make them a thief of the heart
The tumults of organized lives
Often brings happiness but sadly, much strife
As we crawl hastily to our eminent demise
We realize without birth there is no life
Without life, there is no death
Without you, there is no us
Life appears to be
A random state of organized chaos
My poem is my veins
Ohh people ohh people
Uncountable myriad star's
Count the days & nights
Death of notes Friends alive
Making alphabets of each name
Work and duty both are beauty
Gems and stone both are mine
Love or crush both kiss the sky
Proposals and marriage are like horizon
All the poet's writing to the nature I like them
Like a friend.
Believe me is this is a world
No,
Because,
Blood believe My O+
My poem is in my veins
Make me empty and give me death
With love all
Jagdish bajantri
Life, as if fear itself bestowed
Fantasy of a act in human life
Betrayed drama of what is to be
Or wickedness of a species breath inhale
Mind illusion to a dream's reality
They push thought, molding image or control
Way of life, a promise to happiness
A struggle life, none equal unless classed
Hopes to live life fruitfulness
Laughter, the key to kindness joy
We watch, what is portrayed the purpose
But do we thrive under its anger
That we turn not to right or wrong
But the hunger of our own ambitious emotions
Is it so much that we fear death
That realistically we know no time
In life itself a dying soul each day
Mortality taught and trampled beneath constitution
Existence of your journey sane or in vain
We live in a lie covering truth
Actions of many pardon crime of nature
Way of life, we're killers walking the streets
Where theirs is worth more than the innocent
We trade a way of life for what's to be
For destructive society digging their own grave
My dust, scattered in breath of the breeze
Way of life, is it what you hoped to be
Vale USA - it seems there is no end to Terrorism …..
A Broken Land
I saw a broken troubled land
That was refused at their command
And the people wandered alone
Their fate no longer their own
Where were their heroes now
Perhaps lying in a death so foul
Hell’s hot breath had burnt them
Caught defenceless failing in the end
The parchment was used to find their way
But the words were faded refusing to stay
And what is left but unhappiness
The truth now lost in time not blessed.
© Paul Warren Poetry
Since the day I first saw light
I was so tough and hard up for the fight
I learnt the hard way as my rule
The school of hard knocks made me no-ones fool
But whats a poor boy to do
Up in the morning before the sun
My workin for the man a life with no fun
The sweat on my back and dirt on my brow
Living each day behind the plough
But whats a poor boy to do
I was always my father’s son
Working each day ‘til the work is done
There was never a time just for me
All I wanted was life as free as can be
But what’s a poor boy to do
I vowed to myself I would not be
A dirt poor farmer working the land not free
I ran away from home at my first chance
Away from the struggle and the daily farmer’s dance
But whats a poor boy to do
I ran with a crowd that was just like me
Robbin and killin on a lawless spree
Until one day in a border town the sheriff won
And our bank robbin and murder was done
But whats a poor boy to do
The judge had a reputation so proud
Hanging was my sentence the judge unbowed
So here I am standing with a noose around my neck
My last day has come so what the heck
But what’s a poor boy to do.
© Paul Warren Poetry