Long Faceless Poems
Long Faceless Poems. Below are the most popular long Faceless by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Faceless poems by poem length and keyword.
Once upon a time
I had a name,
a faceless woman
of no great fame
————
I hunt the night
to shadows bend,
its in the Grey
my searching ends
Scoping the cattle
sorting the weak,
A brightness of aura
Is what I seek
Young and lithe
stalking the ground,
I see my meal
has just been found
Alighting to earth
I straighten my dress,
licking my fingers
does the ‘mascara’ test
Slinking out
into the light,
trans-morphing beauty
now within his sight
Bewitching his mind
with lustful thoughts,
he’s weaving this way
my meals been brought
Leading him to
a quiet nook,
I’m making the way
for moving my rook
Sweating I see
his lust is at peak,
my meals been warmed
blue veins I seek
Slipping my hands
though his hair,
staring through eye’s
that show no care
My hungers at peak
thus cannot control,
a face in his neck
wanting this feast whole
Pressing my mouth
in the dew of his skin,
unsheathing teeth
they slowly slide in
Taking him into
another realm,
draining his life
is no hard sell
A rapture of blood
flows in my veins,
drifting me through
the higher plains
Then resting his head
on a waistcoat torn,
I straighten myself
in blood I’m adorned
I Stride away
Electrified by night,
Thinking I’d like
A desert to delight
————
My name is death
I’m cursed to prey,
knowing I’ll never
see sight of the day
He held his detached face in his hand as he trepid into the darkness of an
ungodly aura fermented from the
evil within him.
Masked with so much anger and pain
through his faceless face as it mirrored
into his face like the reflection
of his own blackish image.
Yet behind shut eyes he roared like a lion
sending signals to his comrades as
an invitation to the dance into the forest
of the pitch-dark night.
Fist clanged tightly and mysteriously
as he was trapped in his own wrath
and never to see the light of the day
for it was a dead end.
Now alone, his monstrous black hair
poured out in anger;
don’t drag me into my own hell.
Poetry is a state which catches me off guard,
in some corner of time,
between the shadows of a slow Sunday
and the nameless light of an empty street.
It doesn't come from a book or from a dream;
it rather comes with the subtle echo of days
and the quiet touch of hours—
a way the universe might reveal somehow
in its nakedness, within its fissures.
a whisper of itself: of the invisible.
I don't know how I can express what I feel,
or how to name it.
It is light's touch upon the soul,
an ancient lullaby in the chest,
a revealing that seeks no explanations
but only unconditional surrender.
And in that revelation, faceless,
poetry becomes flesh,
body of words that spills out,
and I feel the entire universe
in the fragrance of the eternal—
a moment in which all is one,
and my heart expands
till it gets lost
in the vastness of silence.
All I see
is washed away
into the sea, the Sea of Humanity.
Swarming seamy sea surging sorrows of self pity
whisking waking hours of human emotion
draining liquid fluids of human life
into a sub calming vortex of logic
for accomplishment and conquest.
Deeply drowning the happiness of self worth
with it's lapping wet tongue of bathing insults
it's submerging swell of hate and neglect
it's selfish flood of bristle equality.
A boisterous cry of self indulgence
It's confirming body of acceptance
Deluging the thinker is wet rot
leaving him to suffocate in his own
wallow of tears on the edge of a banishing shore.
To be original is to be cast adrift
alone on the raft of life
dying of thirst salty water cannot quench
defeated by sweat and heat
souls evaporate into the boiling mist
of delusion for defiance against the will
of the Sea of Humanity.
Engulfed by the weight of the mighty oceans surge
I withdraw back into myself
Escaping within my mind of dreams desires devotions
Inner truths of compassion and forgiveness
But I am awaken by the splashing spray
Of the seas lusting shower
And taste the bitterness of my salty fears.
Discovering myself bloated and numb
open glazed eyes that stare blankly inward
toward the oceans depth
ears that hear the singing sirens of the oceans mouth
luring me closer to the shipwreck damnation conformity
a constant unison murmur bewitching tranquil acceptance.
I envelope myself into its lusty whipped foam
devoured by its rhythmic lapping
soothing fingers that wave calm my troubled spirit
like the sands that wash away from the shore
I am consumed into the void grey sea of faceless millions
streaming my soul into it's swell
washing away my existence into its bosom
drowning my dreams desires and devotions into its murky waters
I conform to belong as one
I am weaved into the wave of masses
Laughing into the sound of madness
of the Sea of Humanity
I succumbed to be submerged in its submission.
If the goal of the podium can wait,
I choose the modest, low-hanging fruit
To free my soul from a long suffocating state,
And restore my spirit to its whole from the root.
This is a tale of long-distance running,
Chasing personal fitness free from a medal’s mirth,
When I want to give life the agile feet of spring,
An authentic expression and self’s rebirth.
Why should I endure this goal-oriented gauntlet?
Let me stay far from this all-or-nothing race,
I prefer as a prize the faceless crowd’s pat,
Seeking a podium push nor yet gold-chasing stress.
When a fast-paced life gasps for a fresh breath for soul,
Freedom from competition offers a new birth.
The crossing of a goal-line is no longer the goal
If a race exists, it is for my heart and hearth.
The world grows quiet around my heavy breath
Drowned out by my shoe-soles’ rhythmic slap
On ground, in whose cadence I see chaotic world’s death,
Leaving only the truth of my next forward step.
________________________________
Reflections | 03.08.2026 | ambition, analogy, competition, goal, prize, Quatrain
Note: This piece reflects on competing with the self with an aim to improve rather than winning a medal, taking an illustration of long-distance running. The lines of the quatrain with varying lengths follow a relaxed rhyming rhythm. The narrative continues in part II.
The absurdity of the human condition:
The only condition we try to make sense of,
Make reasonable,
Sanitized,
Certain,
Familiar,
When we know we can’t.
But still we love our categories,
As if life was a Christmas present
That we could neatly wrap
And put into boxes
Labeled “certainty”
But these labels soon break down,
Deconstruct,
Peeling off
Like bad adhesive,
Showing the naked truth:
That we are Odysseus,
Tossed about by the gods,
Armed with the illusion of control;
That we are Don Quixote
Forever fighting windmills
Indifferent to our moral quest;
That we are Hamlet,
Trapped within a cosmic play
Of uncertainty and death;
That we are Gatsby,
Reaching for the magic green light
That forever eludes our grasp;
That we are Sisyphus,
Vainly toiling with our rock,
Telling ourselves that we are happy;
And so we must forever fight
Our constant war against the world,
Embracing the faceless, empty void
With a warm and welcoming smile.
Salute
Bunker Hill, Yorktown, Lundy’s Lane,
Monterey, Bull Run, Gettysburg, Shiloh,
Antietam, St. Mihiel, Belleau Woods,
D-Day, Saipan, Iwo Jima, The Bulge,
Chosin Reservoir, Pork Chop Hill,
Ia Drang, Khe Sanh, Hamburger Hill,
Iraq and Afghanistan.
Famous battles in American history.
Washington, Scott, Grant, Lee, Custer,
Pershing, Patton, Eisenhower, Nimitz,
MacArthur, Westmoreland, Abrams.
Famous leaders in American history.
We are all familiar with these names and places.
But what about the nameless men and women?
The faceless citizens who gave up families, jobs,
education, comfort.
The ones who gave America their blood, bodies,
minds to defend us and set others free.
Their blood has stained countless lands.
Their wounds, physical and mental,
should remind us that freedom is not cheap.
The noncoms, privates, petty officers, junior officers.
The occupants of The Tomb of the Unknown,
the Punch Bowl, the French cemeteries, Arlington,
and countless unknown graves.
The living dead who suffer from grievous wounds
and PTSD.
These are the true heroes.
A faceless clock without numbers
traces past, present, recycled.
Nothing is created; nothing is lost.
It's all transformation.
Fallen leaves cradle new flowers.
As sun rises, sweeps the ground,
lifting up the dying to spring new shoots,
each unfolding rebirth.
The river's flow remakes the land.
Reshaping with unerring hand.
A moving sinuous flow, to and fro,
in endless state of flux.
Nature has no need for numbers.
Not bound by birth, life stage and death.
It's driven to become, improve, evolve,
when the fittest prevail.
Humans, adrift in yearning, trace
each hour that bleeds slow on clock's face.
To reach beyond the birth of their children.
To wrest more from their fate.
I don’t envy anyone, they don’t envy me
I’m faceless somebody, you wouldn’t know my name
I mingle with the crowd, browsing free
Either alone I walk, I’m just the same
Never applied to reach ambitious goals
Lived on the margins, maybe for too long
Couldn’t care less about the social role
Still have no home, to where my soul belong
To all co-owners of their countries I can tell
This might be fun if I would be allowed
My little share of plentitude to sell
So one could buy what I can live without
I would be glad to get a fee for being here
Also a fee that can provide a better place
Where I can go to freely, with no fear
Of being checked on border by my face.
The Empathic
Homeless, faceless...
they walk our streets,
yours, mine, ours.
Their families have forgotten them,
they don't want to go home,
or they can't.
Where do the "people" go,
where there is nowhere else to be?
The heat rises here in the desert.
It melts the sidewalks in the afternoon,
they only re-solidify after dark.
Those trapped on the surfaces
in between
are often cooked,
and burnt.
Water is the gift of life.
It comes in bottles passed out by the caring,
daring to make a difference,
at least for a day.
Later when the world turns cold,
they will be gone.
They will not be back.
For now,
there are 200 beds,
opened up downtown.
Yet there are a thousand people
in the line.
Pray.