Float Poems - Poems about Float

In the cold tub, at ten-thirty in the morning, I float like a wreck after a week of drinking and gambling, My body trembles, my mind is a dense fog, when suddenly the phone rings like a bell in an empty church. A young voice, a folk singer, tells me she has kicked out her boyfriend, his...

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Float in the body sack, the cops are not going to think you were murdered, they will still bid you a 'good morning' if it is morning, or eye you with a deep professional suspicion. Keep floating. If a part of you slips out of the body sack nudge it gently back. You're a sailor, you have shipped a lot of water, but unless your green has forgotten how...

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In a garden of shadows, where dreams float like petals in the evening breeze, The little girl walks the thin line of time, a path of mist and unfulfilled longings, Night approaches like a dark wave, ready to crush the bones of dreams, The woman hides beneath the sheets, listening as silence turns into whispers. On each side of...

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Scissors Cut cords in half, Tethers binding gone, poof… I do float through life reaching out As new. ...

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In the deep silence of my thoughts, where ideas float like leaves on a silver lake, I feel my political opinions dancing on the edge of a dream of anarchy, Not the anarchy of men with bombs and faces hidden in shadows, but that pure freedom, Where control melts like snow under the spring sun, a place without...

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Suspended volumes sitting on an unseen shelf seem too big to float ...

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When I see him, I feel weightless, floating— His smile, his laughter, A wonder so bright, It brings endless joy to my heart. I’m left breathless Every time he’s near. I love all of him— Everything he offers, And even if he gave nothing, Still, I would love him the same. He holds the happiness I seek. He acts tough, But I know, Behind the walls he’s built, Something great...

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Through the labyrinth of my thoughts, I float like a shadow on murky waters, seeking meaning in the silent noise of the world, where men believe their lives are extraordinary, but in essence, they are nothing more than withered leaves carried by the wind of indifference. Their stories, like crumbs scattered on arid ground, awaken only a desire to erase...

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The dead are talking to me in dreams The living are mute They stare at you with intent I pass them silently, in a hurry I’m going to bring my father back. Dead or undead He doesn’t belong in this in between Every night I search to find him by an old well, starting...

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Bubbles blown, float in the air, Shaking shining, way up there, Blow them high, watch them fly, Then pop them, Saying: 'Bye-Bye'! Blow them, Pop them. Float them, Catch them, Say: 'Bye-Bye'. Watch them sparkle, watch them grow, Tiny rainbows, all aglow, Dancing in the morning light. Soapy balls up in flight. Blow them, Pop them. Float them, Catch them, Say: 'Bye-Bye'. Catch a bubble in your...

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Bubbles Everywhere Shimmering spheres Iridescent air FLEETING FANCY! Rainbow's glare! Fragile dance! Delicate snare! Fragile and bright Reflecting light Shimmering sight Playful flight POP! BURST! Fading light In the air we see Ephemeral beauty Fleetingly free Echo of dreams! Fleeting decree! Fragile reflection For all to see! Bubbles... bubbles... A whispered tale Transient beauty! A whispered wail! Illusion shattered! A fragile sail! Fading... Vanishing... Without... fail....

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In the depths of the night, where thoughts float like autumn leaves, I realize that my most intimate thoughts and emotions do not truly belong to me. We think in languages and images we did not invent, Received from society, a gift wrapped in shadows and light. The word "person" comes from the Latin "persona," the mask worn by...

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In the quiet of midnight, where thoughts float like autumn leaves, The poet's soul stirs, playing with words that ignite the unseen, Lightning and luck, the last bluebird singing a melancholic hymn, In this realm of verses, where convention dares not tread. The mind wanders, untamed, through forests of forgotten dreams, Each word a spark, each line a whisper of...

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In the tenebrous, xenial realm of the lake, where human cadavers oscillate, suspended by verdigris chains, a lamia of unholy provenance, orchestrates a gambits cavalcade. Each mortal she ensnares, a lugubrious, ghoulish spectacle unfolds, as if the very essence of the lake itself had been vitrified, its aqua viscera now Elysian repository of forgotten, memento mori-bund. Haunting...

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Under the gentle veil of dawn, where thoughts float like morning mist, Style is the golden thread that weaves through existence, A muse that softly whispers to the heart, Transforming the ordinary dance of life into a lyrical path. Style answers all with a subtle nod, A fresh hue that colors the gray of daily deeds, Turning the mundane into something...

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