Long Finality Poems
Long Finality Poems. Below are the most popular long Finality by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Finality poems by poem length and keyword.
178 months, 129940 hours,
now only 10 minutes remain.
Sitting in cold eerie darkness,
he observes the rhythm of water drops,
slowly wipes away streams of sweat
with his withered trembling hands.
That aching fear, gnawing in his fevered brain,
spasms of fear demanding flight
yet none to be had,
his inner soul asking why he had lost his way
why had his sad life come to this?
What lay in the caverns of darkness ahead!
Wardens pace up and down like wolves,
stopping to stare with compassion less eyes - smirking.
Waiting for the clock to chimes 12 times,
and to shout,
'dead man walking.'
He sits savouring every last breath,
rapidly repenting for all his past mistakes,
deep inside he knows its too late for regrets.
All his apologies fall upon deaf ears.
Flashes past seen, his crimes, girls and drugs, what a blast!
Pretty girls, each taking a slice, of his hoarded treasures
and he indulging in theirs with total abandonment.
O' glorious were those dead and ancient days!
Then reality came back to bite and bite hard,
saying, " such foolishness was a dream and soon comes Death"!
Too hard to bear such truth, he rushes back into fleeting dreams.
Suddenly cold, very cold he feels the deafening bleakness!
Sees the finality in the concrete and iron bars holding him.
Cries silently, what he wouldn't give for another day,
another dawn out in sunshine and fresh air!
Then reality and Fate both spoke to him saying;
" Tho' you a doomed man, meet thy death as a brave one."
Each heart beat beats with each ticking second.
He clutches his worn bible, readying himself for what lies ahead,
anxiously contemplating if he is worthy of redemption.
Rocking back and forth,
unable to control floods of tears,
his thoughts are disturbed with a truncheon rattling his cell's bars,
and the dreaded final summoning of his name.
Wolves smile with sly eyes,
as the stench of death fills the air.
Fellow inmates turn their faces to the ground.
He savours every step, he knows they are his last.
God is no longer the master of his condemned fate.
He knows he can't erase the crimes of his past,
but takes solace,
feeling his crimes were not premeditated,
but now he must face the hypocrisy
of his own premature death.
Fulcrum
Listen to me sweetheart.
It is easy to be a fool.
It requires no intelligence at all.
You will always listen to those who speak
Words you personally want to hear.
You will always ignore and belittle those
Who disagree with your tentative notion
Of what the definitive truth is.
If you say the earth is round,
And there is a tone of finality in your voice,
I will say, fine, but I disagree.
I say it is flat, and I’m right because, well,
I have more college degrees than you,
I am obviously smarter than you,
I’m whiter than you,
And have more money than you.
My house is bigger than yours,
And my car is faster.
Besides, flat objects don’t turn
Elliptically in circles that
Continue on and on, ad infinitum,
Without some kind of radical transmogrification
Occurring in its plain and acute geometric form.
What would Einstein say?
He would agree with me of course!
He would say: “Two things are infinite,
The Universe, and human stupidity.”
Here sweetheart, have another chaser.
I detest talking politics with you,
But I love talking about Einstein,
And I love watching you sit there,
Showing off your shiny scented legs,
As you cross and uncross them
Restlessly.
Here, give me your foot,
I will massage your toes with cotton swabs,
And peanut butter,
And I will feed you my electric eel eggs.
Two activities I love have a similarity,
To experience and conjecture in verse,
And to explore limits of certainty.
Rhyme and meter, whether wordy or terse,
Enact seeing freshly, banning banality.
Math proofs are finding a needle in a hay source,
Needing imagination to reach finality.
Many school veterans curse,
“Algebra is not daily reality!”
“Trigonometry makes life worse!”
But poetry and math have a commonality,
They both tease out how the world works,
Neither rewards conventionality,
Both work by seeing the diverse.
I admit rote formulas draw my enmity,
Whether in word or number universe.
I’ve found in sonnets and theorems an equality,
If you disagree, you can rightfully call this poem a hearse.
His eyes looked worn and full
of a lonely lifeless existence. Lost
in his world, wandering through.
The heartfelt pains are the
heavy burdens he carries with him.
His body and feet aching from
the miles of foraging through the
cold dark mean, city streets.
The Holidays are hardest for
him as he remembers vaguely
his first Christmas with his parents.
For a moment that thought
brings a warm loving feeling,
engulfing his heart releasing a
tear.
He then sees a family through
a picture window as he slowly walks
by, listening to their joyful
expressions of festivity.
Remembering his and escaping to
avoid the pain of his thoughts of
his family.
His clothes are worn like his teeth.
Needing medical attention, he deals
with the physical pains along with
the mental ones, on his own.
He finally sits down, puts his
hands over his head and breaks
down crying uncontrollably. Releasing
his life's experiences all at once!
Relieving all of his hearts pains,
through tears. Finally giving up!!
Michael Tor 10/6/2015
The Catholic Church has a Pope because the papacy was instituted by our Lord Father Christ (Jesus)
The Pope is the visible head of the Church and has supreme authority to preserve doctrine
To teach
To sanctify
The Pope protects dogma and keeps us united in faith
If not for the papal unerring
There would be no certainty in matters of faith
We would have no means of knowing what is true and what is not
We could have no finality of doctrine
Each person would be left to believe whatever he or she "felt" was right
As a result
There would be error
Disunity
Rejection of truths
Adoption of errors etc
We wouldn't even have a Bible since there would be no unerring authority to determine the canon of Scripture
We could never be sure that our beliefs corresponded with truth
We could never be sure we were on a true path leading to salvation
Furthermore
Without the Pope
There would be no preserver of doctrine
No center of unity
No supreme authority visible on earth
The Church was literally founded by our Lord on the "rock" of St. Peter
Without this foundation
The entire structure would fall
Poetry Written: 1072023
Time Written: 10:51a.m.
Poetry Form: Free Verse
Trembling, heart racing – it feels
So much like darkness, gray and dim
No light – no hope – no way to cope
This is the inkling of sorrow, grief
Beyond words – like the scream of fear
Fading, fading into the blackness
Silence awakening endless mourning
Regrets so humble, reducing moonlight
To a spot on the night where memory
Fades in – fades out, never wordless
Shouting silent blows, erasing hope
Dread, revulsion glimmering in a tear
Awfulness portrayed in sobs, weeping
Everlasting anguish, heartbreaking
Sensations in waves of melancholy, blurring
Every memory, each thought a laborious
Whisper of loss, the past pressing in
Meeting the passing of light, vibrating
Time of death in the signature of grief
Tearing away the peace and reminding me
The finality of this ending – surrendering
To the hope of eternity, forever and always
Living in heaven, where there is only love
Love that remembers to never give up hope!
Nowhere in the wide world
is death so stunning,
so beautiful as in our
wooded lands-- a plethora
of colors and shades
as dying leaves clutch
desperate to their trees
until they can no more.
Here and there
a Japanese Maple
seems to burst over-
night into volcanic flame,
its leaves dripping the
molten red of lava
as the lowering sun
streaks through
its myriad spires.
And we walk like kings
on thick carpets of gold,
feeling keener of life
by the sharp cool air,
a temp somewhere
between the deep,
deep heat of birth
and desolated
frozen death.
For some of us,
autumn is sadness
personified: presage
of one's finality.
For others, it's a
season of glory,
death's door
adorned.
I sidestep the issue, not wanting to speak of it
With one who does not remember
Going through it innumerable times.
An ending? No. A beginning….
Perpetually and forever.
The cyclical dance of death.
She wants to speak of tombs and stones.
I laugh at her ignorance.
Remembering many reincarnations.
The death dance
So optimistic and hopeful.
The ultimate fairness.
New beginnings, with parents and
Dreams starting up in a fresh new way.
I sidestep her absoluteness,
realizing she does not remember.
Thus she cannot understand, and I
cannot abide the gloom and finality
she insists upon espousing.
Written 3-1-2019
Contest: The Death Dance Sponsor: Chantelle Anne Cooke
Flowers fade and decay through wintry hours - waiting for rebirth."
Quote by - Constance La France
The night extends its life longer
The temperature gets colder
The colourful landscapes fade to orange
Rustic browns shape the scene
Sepia tones indicate age
The natural world decaying
Stripped back; the bareness of finality
Stark images of looming death
The bleak imagery of winter
In still and dark whispers of light
Destruction pervading terrains of white
Enveloping the ground
Daylight returns in victory
For darkness relinquishes strength
Bare desolation is melting away
With sunlight warming earth
Glimmering shards of renewal
As buds begin taking new form
Birthing beginnings; life everlasting
Cycle of change restored
Give me all of one thing, and I’d gladly
give up all of the others.
Not for me the monotony of variety,
the trying, the sampling, the dabbling,
the skimming over surfaces.
Experience is nothing without intensity.
Give me a drowning then,
in a false god, a love, a cause (any), a bottle, a syringe.
Depths to sink to
en route to the peaks of rapture.
Give me freedom from having to make choices,
relief from the responsibility of autonomy,
the solace of surrendering
to that which demands
humility, piety, the soul’s nudity.
Obedience is clarity.
All of life reduced to the totality of me
and the finality of “it”.
Give me the comfort of wanting all of one thing
that wants all of me.