Long Deadest Poems
Long Deadest Poems. Below are the most popular long Deadest by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Deadest poems by poem length and keyword.
Dear commissar wherever you are? There's never been times I've felt so far
That this place is like the deadest star, no orbit or purpose apart from travel
Will it go supernova? which way will it unravel.? Perhaps galactic ice will
Overtake? From the lagoon of despair, in massive lake's to then become a sea
Of doom? Reflecting many itinerant moons; just hurtling round the net in a loop
With a never-ending dismal group, of astrologers; to chart it's demise
Through ever more forbidding astral skies, oh commissar; oh commissar'
Can't you change direction? It's not too far.' Just a million light years away'
Where a Sun is shining, where inspiration can blossom near and far.
Yet maybe there is no commissar? No commissar.. Or book of rules.'
Adhered to by..Well by no doubt gilded fools' surely though there must some be?
In consonants prison, just you mark me' adrift on that silly bubbles sea
Why do they venture? Before anyone interupts ) I'm asking me.!
There's the tide the moon runs, and the tide of emotion for someone.)
Bad tidings ever fleet; at any hour, the tidings of joy bestowing power,
A tide of mice, or'tops the land, by two times thrice no harvest stands
There is also a consumer tide, in which we wallow, and take much pride'
We'd changed for deisel, propane gas now electric, 10 billion cars to scrap effective?
Then there will be even more to make, ever to build' always to be take.'
There's much aversion to any red pill, just pop those blues.' Keep them coming
You can be a wireless object with what's a' humming it's going fast if it hits you'll never know'
What mask to wear on the radio, no matter that your face isn't seen its all about the
Image; yet I'm not that keen' and like why are we all so lost in this smog from such dirty Green.'
The sodium street lights
Your few striped freckles
The makeshift tattoo on my palm
A couple? Never. It's always been a triple or even a single at best,
A circle of medics healing medics.
This distortion is fine
It's a revolution of entrancing revolts.
Relics ignite for every star in the ground,
Scattered upon my brain.
To my pressed, dear, deadest flowers...
You keep leaving me out!
Crystalise for me, so I can die again for you.
My precious opalite,
Your purity is a miracle.
My beloved flaked obsidian,
Your impurity is a fiasco.
Both are much to be worshipped.
But now what am I to you>
The myriad, or the clone?
You keep me enshrined.
You rekindle yourself.
You say the circle is perfect, but it ends 4 corners behind.
I guess I'm only history.
Set me alight
If you dare.
There is more warmth here
Curled beneath
The sickly, flickering halo
Of the streetlamp outside your house
Than I ever managed
To pull
From your skin
The heavy, reckless snow
Tangling in my eyelashes
Melts softer than your voice ever did
Evaporating with every blink
Until I can feel the stinging flush of blood
Creeping back into my face
A reluctant reminder
Of what a pulse
Is actually supposed to feel like
You were colder
Than the unmade mattress
On my side of the bed
You slept huddled up
Safe and cocooned
Like your mother still tucked you in
While my goosebumps
Became permanent fixtures
In the draft
“You should see him in my dreams,”
I confessed to your ceiling
In the hollow hours that chewed me alive
While my fingers traced
The little black curl
At the nape of your neck
“One touch of him
In that faded
Band shirt
Was like a swarm
Of manic butterflies
Diving headfirst into electric barbed wire”
But really an intimacy
Flatlining
Into rigor mortis
An ache so violently heavy
It calcified against my ribs
Like the residue of gin and bad decisions
So was it me?
Was I just a rough draft
Of someone else you wanted?
Did the quiet crush you enough
To play house
Only to want to lock the front door?
Did you just
Want to sleepwalk
through my lifetime?
Now I know
why your ceiling
never said anything back
But hey, at least it’s warmer here
A story man will run out of stories.
He's deprived of oxygen
a lusterless butterfly
chained to straight paths
the deadest of ends in sight
a fading dreamer in a burnt-out lullaby.
Funny thing about a story man...
Although he always has the belief
that another story
Nestled deep in the throat
of a mountain top crag
You just had to dig it out.
He moves on down the dirt road
(at periwinkle pace).
Conversing with dusty birds begging for neon crumbs.
Then out of the deepest kind of blue
the puncture wound in his balding tire
turns into an angel of fire.
No longer oxygen-deprived.
Out of chrysalis bondage.
Following the path of hieroglyphs
chanting
"Be grateful- pay attention
this could be your last
story
man".