Long Metamorphosis Poems
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It wasn’t that she was the only woman
in the group, that mingled precariously
beneath the bronze figure, or her classic
stance, when placing immaculately the
newsprint covered bottle to lips willingly
breached, but more her opulent style, her
contrast of attire, her hair as yet unspoilt.
Although jewel less except for a wedding
ring in her recently pierce blood stained ear
lobe, (this bearing signs of some street wise ritual?)
she still wore a suave sophistication, eyes
that bred a wanton life, fingers more use to
the gentle stem of the crystal goblet, than
the demure grasp of the shapeless neck of
the common brown. But alas maybe the
corrosion has not as yet penetrated her
foreboding mind, a mind that in time will
be given to surrender, never to realize that
this volatile life will plunge her deeper, into
one shambolic life, whilst still trying to escape
from the previous. But! Who knows what ills she
was force to bear, what tribulations life brought
upon her, maybe her new found acquaintance
comfort her, listen to her sympathetically,
understanding her predicament, also a novelty
this sharing, this caring, respect and reverence
showered upon her, like solicitous petals
falling gracefully upon her shoulders,
removing the burdens of a lifetime.
Her head
began to lift higher and higher with every
mouthful of distant courage, every courteous act.
Then! A look of deep despair, as the bottle was
released from her reluctant deep red lips, a
senseless shake only proved her greatest fear.
Immediately to her aid, came one of her new found
companions, swiftly finishing his own endless gorge,
he commence to wipe the neck of his perpetual habit,
with his mucus soiled cuff less sleeve, before
passing it on to her veracious hand, his eyes eagerly
awaiting its return.
One can imagine when the long day
is over, the sun finally at rest, only the motley bench will be hers, only the best that fleet street can offer, will cover her chilled body, her metabolism soon accelerating, to become one with theirs, a license to enter their dissipation, only then will all options for her diminish, external metamorphosis soon to blend with inner corruption, life’s destruction almost completed!
© Harry J Horsman 1991
Metamorphosis: a word for butterflies,
Said the science textbook in school,
Positive transformations connoted her young soul.
Age brought in a new realisation,
Life, a one-way road with two destinies,
The darker one a metamorphosis too.
The endlessly bleak days,
Dwindling success,
Slipping confidence,
Broken dreams,
The road to change now a narrow old bridge,
Fragile and frail to support her lofty dreams,
Permanency etched in this new route,
Metamorphosis it was; not a passing phase.
Yet, butterflies her eyes chose to see,
Bright pupils midst tear streaked face,
Light shone on the narrow bridge,
Carefully she lugged her weight.
The caterpillar crawled, awkward and slow,
The bridge creaked, threatening to break,
Yet held on to this struggle everyday,
Patiently trudging to the light ahead.
Metamorphosis, still a double-edged sword,
All her struggles could tip her either way,
Yet, she chose the route with pain,
Trying to metaphorse yet again.
She knew it was a story of win or die,
A second dark metamorphosis she wouldn't survive,
Yet this turnaround she chose,
To gloomy life, she refused to bend.
Cocoon she became, the saddest soul alive,
Tears became her appetite,
Broken she was in a thousand pieces,
Her delicate spirit a ruined mess.
The pain made her numb and weak,
Shallow breaths and fiery cheeks,
She closed her eyes, her bright pupils gleaming,
She felt her soul float, she felt existence cease.
But, most of all she felt her eyes open,
Her lips curved a natural smile.
Wings she bore as beautiful and delicate as her spirit,
Her body she felt, weightless and symmetric,
Effortlessly, she flew upwards,
Gliding through the wind, peaceful and sound.
Embodiment she now was, of beauty and success and all things gold.
Bleak fluorescent rooms a thing of the past,
The bridge her metamorphosis, the pain her badge of honour,
She knew it was her destiny, sweet success and enchanting beauty,
She wasn't made for this toil and grub.
Yet, that was her life, the struggles and the pain.
She was now, an angelic dream,
A lover's ballad, a sailor's home.
She was a child's wish, a fairy tale,
A land of exotic fruits, a colourful maze.
She was a drug, an elixir of life,
An ecstatic dream, a virgin queen.
She exists as immortal bliss,
Her scent seaming all earthly souls.
A little black coal sitting upon God’s office desk
basking under the Light of God
writing down my thoughts and dreams
wishing to be more than what I am
God’s ink is black as obsidian
His pen of an arch angel’s feather
and as God goes about his work
I pray to God and talk about my stories with Him
of all of the adventures and desires that I wish to take on
God would listen, through His Spirit He would speak
but I wanted more of everything
I didn’t know as a coal what it meant to be a diamond
how my fantasy transformed into reality would be
the pressures involved in the metamorphosis
the lost and the change and transposition
didn’t really grasp what it took to be a diamond
yet I wanted to be more than what I was/am
to know who I will become and be
God picked me up and tossed me back into the world
from his Sherlock Holmes like office to reality
where with each pressure, my soul became more diamond than coal
with each suffering, I shined more like a galaxy
but I also felt impatient and wanted to be at the end already
even though all of what I asked has yet to be
Things were simple upon God’s Desk
where I basked and dreamed in perfect harmony
dreaming dreams that didn’t suffer from reality
that didn’t clash with everything
Everything has changed and I worry about cracks that could appear
from all of the pressure and stresses and worries
needing to deny myself to become this new version I asked for
The emotions like fire devouring inside
anger and frustration and madness
where I’m conflicted and afflicted and wonder
What is God up too…
Evil thoughts would spring into mind
like dandelion seeds from demons somehow finding me
trying to claw their way inside
Twisted thoughts that God has left me
God has forsake me
that nothing that I know is true
trying to turn everything against me
playing with my emotions
taking advantage of my weaknesses
exploiting truths into lies
placed inside a maze of insanity
How much more will I be able to go on and have self control
throughout this new world
that tries to pit me against The One that I Love: God
I close my eyes
where my faith blooms and grows
in this secret garden of my soul
where I can always trust that water will flow
Breathing in and trusting
God will get me through and hasn’t forsaken me...
Under the veil of twilight, where shadows whisper the secrets of the soul,
A river of thoughts flows endlessly, weaving through the ethereal landscape of my mind,
Carrying fragments of self-knowledge that must be torn apart before I am whole.
The man I know myself to be—the one who walks in familiar shadows—must meet his end,
So that the true man I am, hidden deep in dreams, can rise and truly exist.
The echoes of an old self ring hollow, desperate for the dawn of a new essence,
And in this dance of melancholy and magic, I glimpse the delicate balance of transformation.
I wander through a labyrinth of metaphors, where each corridor leads deeper into the fog of introspection,
Where the walls are adorned with pale portraits of the past,
And every turn brings a moment of reflection, a confrontation with the shadows of an old self.
This man I have known, a tapestry of familiar fears and comforts, must perish,
So that I can lay him to rest in the catacombs of forgotten dreams,
And rise from the ashes, a phoenix reborn at dusk, unburdened and pure.
It is in this crucible of self-destruction and rebirth that I find the essence of who I truly am,
As I walk through the valley of my own soul, unweaving the fabric of the past,
I understand the necessity of erasing the echoes of the old man within me,
To carve out space where the true man can breathe, live, and flourish.
The old man must die, his spectral presence fading into the night,
For only then can the dawn illuminate the contours of the true self.
In this mystical journey, where melancholy kisses the edges of hope,
I surrender to the flux of consciousness, a current that carries me toward the horizon of becoming.
This dissolution of the known self is but a necessary prelude to the symphony of rebirth,
A metamorphosis that transforms the chrysalis of the soul into the liberated butterfly,
Wings unfurling in the gentle light of twilight, where magic and melancholy intertwine.
And as the twilight yields to the night, and the stars paint the canvas of the sky,
I stand on the precipice of my own becoming, the old man laid to rest,
While the true man steps forward, a vessel of possibilities, a testament to the beauty of transformation,
Embracing the melancholy of loss and the magic of renewal, in the ever-flowing river of consciousness.
* This has become a fave genre for me, as I’ve always been fascinated by metamorphosis and introspection of a shadowy nature … I hope you enjoy it. *
~
ruin of me …
what was once
a bloom of promise
has become a wilderness of horrors
all for the sake
of your pearly light, strewn
that cornflower eye
that you open wide but once a month …
in my wistful youth,
I dreamt of your enchantments -
what dark-edged demon
were you looking for
that needed the bright of your full gaze?
you, a black-skinned cyclops
searching this orb
for the spell might set it free …
was that it, I mused?
each full face of the moon -
were you hoping for your liberty
and occasion to dance with the stars?
how could I have known in
my callow curiosity?
how could I have envisaged such
a diabolical truth?
it was ME you were searching for -
the chance to turn my blood
to molten metal
my teeth to daggers
and my body to a fiend of the moors -
twisted, powerful as an oak
and thirsting for flesh …
you, Luna
are the pearl of night -
the maiden of mysteries and magic, dark
the recreant lover of lycanthropy -
bane of my breath
and sweet salt of my doom
ages-times-ages ago
the vernal lad I was
wandered the high fells, lost -
dropped sleeping under a copse of cedars
and awakened to the gentle bite
of a broad, beautied canid
(your maidservant)
sable, with eyes of fire opal
the blue sheen of your vaulted gaze
daubing her fur like dew …
she had no intent of devouring me
no sense of animus at all
just PURPOSE -
purpose beyond my grasp
but the wait to discover just that,
was not long …
now -
now you stare like a harlot
these rare nights
just to see my monstrosity -
to behold the wonder of your accursed creation -
the genesis of genocide and guilt
that pierced the heart of a
wee boy of chastity
rife with hope and promise
then charred his dreamy aspirations
with veins of fire
and a conflagration of his marrow …
I … am the damned …
in your sight -
your blue-eyed midnight -
is where the man of me ends
and the beast begins
you, passion’s pain
who stirred my stripling soul
robbed me of my god
and flames my
coursings …
even now.
For the “1258 New Poem Only Poetry Contest”, Brian Strand Judge/Sponsor.
I want to be in love with you again.
He searches for purpose, he begs for reason. He does so in a hectic manner, with no ease to the tension in his search. The answer sits clearly above. While he furiously pokes and prods amongst grains and chunks of rock and dirt. Allowing the weight of himself to dig his knees in deeper, creating impressions of each distinctive pebble.
I want to see you smile again.
He has become intolerant at this point in time. With lungs fully depressed, he pushes deeper down into the soot. The hysteria and claustrophobia sends the man into a panic. He no longer recognizes himself, or those who define him.
I want you to feel beautiful again.
Exasperated, the man finds the tips of each finger to be numb. The blood is slow to reach the surface; much like his level of comprehension. The man can no longer acclimate; the inability to adapt to the rush around him spirals his good intentions into a void. Ignorance has exhumed the entirety of his perception.
I want to spend the rest of my life with you.
An absence of light; his consciousness is bleak, a figment of a once good man. The hand-dug hole set upon the cadaver of the man; whom tirelessly trenched until fingers split, served as a bed to the broken figure. With what dirt lay around, had been pushed in by whom had stood over the man in his final failure.
I don't ever want to see you cry for me.
A mound is all that's left. A woman dressed in tears; stood by, long before the man had died. Suffice to say, gave reason for him to dig. If ever she had stopped him, would only incite the man to dig deeper. Harrowing, his tale of being unable to love in return.
I don't want you to be alone.
The man's existence seemed futile. Nevertheless, he carries on a legacy unknown to himself. Much more to her than a child. Through his incessant pain, she realizes her own strength. And from the death of such colossal pain, grows life. A flower perched upon the mound. A metamorphosis from an inkling of negative, to a plethora of beauty.
I want you to be happy for yourself.
Like the child never to be had, she is unable to conceive the remnants of his past. The overwhelming nature of freedom is personified through his death.
On learning to become a guru...
The following artfully crafted back in the day
(actually poetic endeavor presented below
written a few scant years ago) in response to
unexpected positive feedback received on
the most popular social media platform.
Unbeknownst to this unsuspecting witty mortal,
a reverberation attributed to butterfly effect
linkedin to hotmail twittering Facebook member,
who resides within Bhutan, his dignified volition
accorded me magnanimity titled sage without any
influential collusion from Russians bestowed yours
truly with said honorably distinguished appellation,
which humility of mine humbly accepted without a
protestation, though never would I brazenly adopt
spiritual holiness, yet flattered to share such rare
pronouncements, when unsolicited feedback lobbed
in my direction (way before advent of Information
Technology Revolution) often tendered, kindled, and
belittled this gentle human, sans when bullies slung
byte ting bit torrent loathsome scandalous red zingers
targeting personal vulnerabilities, asper being under
socially withdrawn, painfully shy, plagued with speech
impediment (severe nasality) caused by submucous
cleft client, plus weighing where needle budged from
absolute zero pounds, topped with passive demeanor
susceptibilities conveniently converging to establish
this bruised Earthling ideal choice as scapegoat, no
kidding with dread to endure endless days, weeks,
months...a lifetime channel of opprobrious, noxious,
malicious emotionally demonic, cannibalistic, barbaric
abominable, damnable, horrible diatribes chipping
(dale lee) at what measly self confidence shielded
fragile psyche fast crumbling into grist for hungry
caterpillar, unbeknownst that flight path randomly
followed by a representative of Lepidoptera order,
would ineluctably set very subtly infinitesimal
fluctuations within air (currently supplying biota
with requisite oxygen), also training perturbation.
Patience Young Grasshopper mine alter ego spoke
when yours truly figuratively chomping at the bit
more accurately fretting with anxiousness when
boyhood body of mine underwent metamorphosis
impossible mission to thwart biological transformation.
I didn’t know that it exists until I see an ant crawling out of a disc, I didn’t know that it exists until I see a beetle from the order of Coleoptera coming out of a hole, and a thousand of them join a procession and marched around a mound that leads towards the heavens.
The early morning warmth races through the back door leaving a multitude of beetle crawling about the floor. There were hundreds of them moving in line heading towards the shores and the metamorphosis begins. Skins piling upon skin and the transformation from nymph to an adult begin and new bugs start moving in.
I didn’t know that it exists until it started to fly at a significant altitude in the sky; I didn’t know that it exists until I saw hundreds of them gallivanting in different directions. They hunkered on the ground and flew around and around; they dilly and dally from corner to corner and mock the beetles on the ground and disappeared in thin air.
I didn’t know that it exists until I stood behind the tree and listened carefully to the hammers and nails, the saws and drills, and the sound of the wood pecker boring a hole in the middle of the tree to hide its friends and family.
The whooper swans with beaks shows up in hundreds and marched towards the fortified walls, I wondered what that was all about and then the tanga bean goose starts to shout, looking for a passage to move across the valley but the woodpecker would not allow them to move one inch further but the bar-headed goose came along singing a happy song and stood in the midst and greet them with a smile.
The wood pecker open the gate and whooper swan, the bar-headed goose and the tanga bean goose and everyone could pass through.
I didn’t know that it exists until the ground dove came out of the hole and the caterpillars start moving underground, the tunnels run in four directions and you could get to four different countries in a jiffy.
There was no land mark for you to start, just a pigeon hole in the ground to lead you where destiny is bound, you across the river and you will find a track across the street when you walk through the pigeon hole.
I didn’t know that it exists until they breached the fortified hill.
The end of the Pier was shrouded in mist
the Shadows we cast were defining,
We plighted our troth, and then we kissed,
Neath a full orbed moon that was shining,
We walked hand in hand to the end of the pier,
The ghosts of our past reawakened our fear,
We had to be strong, for ourselves and each other,
Whether we could, we were about to discover.
The mist started lifting and in the moonlight
a blanket of bats had just taken flight,
then in a moment the bats were not there,
they had completely dissipated into thin air.
We both had worked on the Pier in the past,
It had long since closed, when we were there last,
Stoker wrote, Whitby, was were the vampires came,
But this abandoned pier received them just the same.
As we approached the door, that led into the pier,
From the frightened flight of bats, one still was here,
A sudden metamorphosis, took place within the frame,
And a vampire stood before us, I knew him, and his name.
Vladimir, I said to him, I once fought by your side,
I am your nemesis and fate, from me you cannot hide,
For I am here, to stop your cheer, and the evil that is you.
he gave me quite an evil look, deciding what to do.
I shined my torch upon his face,
Remembering how we loved this place,
The fair was now in disrepair,
But seeing Vladimir, we did not care,
The place had always been such fun,
especially when blessed by a warm summer sun,
Vladimir was an amusement, placed within the fair,
whose main role it was, to frighten and to scare,
The pier had no power, so we could not turn him on,
But the memory of what happened, has certainly not gone,
To animate the mannequin, required a coin to go,
Then Vladimir would start, his ghoulish vampire show.
He would give an evil cackling laugh, that shred your nerves apart,
He certainly was quite frightening, and not for the faint of heart.
I suppose it was a funny place for us to reminisce,
But when in love there are memories, you do not want to miss.
I think we now are over, the need to see the pier,
Generally, we remember it, over a glass of beer,
I suppose we might go back one day and have a laugh at Vlad,
Although the old Piers crumbling, it’s really rather sad.
She and the handsome gentleman finalized the contract, and he gently placed
the antique pearl necklace into the palm of her tiny hand. As he walked away,
she fantasized about making love with him, for he possessed both charm and
exceptional good looks; he certainly was enchanting...thick, black wavy hair,grey-
green eyes...tall...muscular ~ oh, those muscles...all over his tanned body...head
to toe.
But she wondered about that limp as he walked away, depending on a heavy
metal
staff
for
balance...
after all, an eternity of beauty and power in exchange for
one
pathetic
soul.
The evening of the deed was a frigid six degrees, and there was a dead smell of
the sun. She stayed late after work, waiting anxiously until everyone had gone.
Finally, he was alone in his office, so she placed the pearl necklace around her
fragile neck and unbuttoned her red, silk blouse so to reveal her sexy red
camisole.
She entered the office, and gently leaned over him from behind; he was aroused
by the scent of her "Red Door" cologne...his favorite, and his senses were even
more heightened as he turned around and observed her erect breasts speaking
in a language only he understood. With his large hands, he slowly explored her
thighs, making his way up her black skirt.
"You have beautiful legs."
"You think so, huh?"
They kissed, and the necklace brushed his chest; he didn't feel well, at all. He
was hot...so hot, and his body began its metamorphosis, retaining a grayish
tinge....then blackish...
He
burst
into
flames;
then, disappeared along with all omens of the deed.
She walked over to the black wrought iron mirror and smiled; her wrinkles were
gone...vanished...just as promised; she was ten years younger.
The windows began sweating, and the handsome stranger appeared.
"I have one more assignment for you."
"But we made a deal, one soul."
She began to feel peculiar, and as she viewed herself in the black mirror, she
began aging...ten years...twenty...thirty...she pulled out a large clump of thin, white
hair.
The room darkened from his moonly mind.
"My dear, the other soul...is yours."