Long Mirrors Poems
Long Mirrors Poems. Below are the most popular long Mirrors by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Mirrors poems by poem length and keyword.
silence hisses, whispering streams of poetry and melody
my soul is soothed as meditation takes me into a brave mist
idea of thankfulness mirrors my countenance
the air is glowing with lights of seven candles
ancestral voices parade in through the window
smoke of the night takes my hand and guides me
entities are steadily arriving, showing me the way
leading me toward the true desires of my heart
my soul is relieved, as we are lead to remember
the contract we signed before this incarnation
my soul sighs, relaxing into the knowledge
we are in the safe flames of our spiritual candles
All is good, all is well, we are finally feeling home,
Feeling our energy self, recognizing our heavenly truths.
A flicker of candles reinforces my path, showing me my soul.
In the shadow of a wilted evening, where busy spiders spin their fragile thoughts,
Lacking the substance for a solid tome, losing tenure and academic appointments,
They fill their purses by spreading confusion among the naive minnows,
Seeing nothing but their own grimacing faces in a delirium of mirrors.
Most of all, I doubt the rare and sincere ones,
Masters of the pale moon, with eyes like wells of light,
What do they say in their faint whispers that fade into the distance?
What secrets do they hide in their delicate and ephemeral webs of thought?
Listen, my beloved son: I have labored all my life like a draft horse,
This house and measure of savings will cushion your future;
But if ever I see you moon-struck with the desire to write a treatise
On "Whither This?" or "The Future of Something," I swear I will leave my estate
To the Society for Simplified Spelling or some such folly.
Dear child, embrace wine, hunting, gaming—
Not theorists, not dialecticians!
In a night of dreams and unfulfilled desires, where thoughts stretch like spider webs,
I remember your words, father, and your wise counsel,
For this world is full of illusions and broken mirrors,
And the truth is often lost in the whispers of those who gaze only at the stars.
In a melancholy dance of shadows and pale lights,
I find my place and purpose, to question, to seek, to understand,
To write my own choreography, in the endless spectacle,
Ever-changing, of life and reality, a sacred dance of existence.
You claim that we live in a just society
One where law comforts the innocent
And justice punishes the victim
But that's not true is it?
When in reality it's the opposite of that
Especially when you are black
For us We live in an alternate reality
Where this doesn't happen
Where we the innocent are falsely imprisoned
And our oppressors are rewarded with freedom
The system acts like it cares
Gives us an olive branch
A promise of peace
Of equality
A false act of kindness
To fool the blind and ignorant
The ones who will believe anything
Leaving us feeling foolish
Hopeless
That for once we'd get our justice
But then again can a tiger really change its stripes?
Because after all salt can be mistaken for sugar
How can we trust a system
Built of racism
That has constantly failed us
Left us broken
And often kills us
If this is your idea of justice we don't want it
Stop putting on this performance
Your walls are collapsing
Your exterior has faltered
Even a mirror cracks in your presence
Broken by the weight of your lies
Angered by your intentions
Your hate mirrors your reflections
A system so threatened
By our existence
That it's whole foundation created to kill us
Gentle Reckoning
Dear wandering heart, bruised but still beating,
You sit in the quiet, where shadows grow long,
Chasing the ghost of her curls in the evening,
Fingers that ache for the song they once strung.
Remember the fit, like a glove to your palm.
Her warmth wrapping secrets, no edges to scar.
You were mirrors and magnets, opposites calm,
Known through the veils of lifetimes afar.
Oh, self, you miss the highways we'd claim,
Winds whipping wild through her laughter's soft call,
Coffees at dawn, steam rising like flame,
Her hand in your space, dissolving the wall.
Those rhythms we sang as our bodies entwined,
Notes turning sweat into symphonies sweet.
Wilderness trails where the earth felt aligned,
Sea salted quests on the edge of our feet.
And those midnight confessions, unraveling thread,
Of God in the whispers, realms beyond sight,
Faith like a lantern, trust chasing the dread,
Teases that bloomed into bursts of delight.
Her care was your harbor, a tide pulling near,
Mending the fractures you carried alone.
Now in the hollow, the echo rings clear:
You loved like a storm, and it carved you from stone.
But listen, old soul, to the ache turning wise.
This longing's a teacher, not thief in the night.
It honors the fire, the stars in her eyes,
And whispers of gardens yet born from the fight.
You're whole in the fragments, a map redrawn true,
With room for the wild, for the next dawn's soft cue.
Breathe deep, my reflection; the moon pulls you through.
With grace unfolding,
Yours, unbroken.
Put a finger down drug addict edition.
Put a finger down, if you are to scared to look in the mirror, afraid your reflection will end your delusions, mirrors show only what they see, if e sure for look, may you know if how you look and how you feel na the same thing.
Put a finger down, if you feel empty inside, like your mind is stuck in limbo, you cannot decide death or life, and all you can hear is your demon's cry, its hell inside and heaven outside, your euphoria, rue and Justin combined.
Put a finger down, if you have pushed everyone away because they begged you to stop, you didn't, now they've stopped, and you cant stop, so please stop and think of what you've lost.
Put a finger down, if you never thought you would live like this as a kid, if ten year old you wished for something different, made a time capsule, for you to read, but here you are swallowing every capsule you see.
Put a finger down, if you've lost everything, your family, your mind, your life, your high, you don't fly like you used to anymore, and that's fine, its doesn't mean you need more, the happy pills don't work anymore so you switch to heroine, but the only hero is the one who saves you from an OD .
Put a finger down if you're tired of everything, there not much to say about that you know how you feel.
Put a finger down if you feel dependent, like your life depends on it and if you stop your heart will stop to beat, recovery ain't but it is what it is.
Put a finger down if you feel alone, no one to hold your hand as you take your first steps and your first jump, when you kicked yourself out of tat hole, we heard you cry and we held you tight and we will guide you still you are ready to face life.
Put a finger down if you now feel safe, saved from a life filled with self hate, and pass this to your former cellmates, so they can be free.
Love is like fragile wings.
romance an illusion of moonlight delusions.
I recall when summer skies hypnotised,
in the pleasure of your pleasing presence,
I used to gaze at the doves of love above,
admiring their delicate reflections in your eyes.
Revealing the tempress inside you,
our butterfly hearts used to flutter,
watching our shy shadows dance,
to the rhythm of brave waves of hope.
Tribulations of time led to a
decay within our garden,
as poisoned poetic petals,
drowned in a wild river of roses.
Now we are like a
destitute of wildflowers,
our souls resembling moths of shame.
There is a sadness in silence,
when there is confusion
in communication.
Tongues remain oppressed
in misunderstanding.
When candlelight caresses
no longer feel the same,
as misplaced moments begin to untame.
Songs of passion we sang for us,
escape as anthems of selfish games.
Should we muster dry conversations?
Neglect our flower garden in this storm?
Within wilting vines where
weeping willows hide,
it's a crime that the crying
crescent moon mirrors our stolen hours.
Specks of cosmic dusts
refuse to unravel silver spotted dreams,
when time becomes a nightmare
ticking beneath electric fields of scarlet.
I've lost and found you in
diversified seasons,
as winds of evanescence
curl empty promises into pearly shells.
Every poetic phrase you’ve
place in my borderline mind,
no longer hydrates this
glassy oyster heart -
will I forever remain confined
within restrained walls?
Perhaps this is just another
beginning of an ever-glowing end.
Painted in restless nights
from subtle strokes,
of forgotten devotion felt
like forbidden nostalgia,
beckoning monotonous forlorn
silhouettes to depart.
The last star shines and
bleeds broken hopes
in dwindling wraiths
upon love gliding
within trifling shadows.
For, sometimes feelings
wane like ephemeral phases
of moon-bows that seize
every lingering last light of life,
unveiling tides of change to
wriggle into thin fogs of grey.
Yet your clarity is forever
framed as timeless souvenirs,
designed as fine aesthetic
art colouring me with affection.
Forgive me, but I will
perpetually plant loyal seeds,
so our collaborations
continue to blossom in fresh fragrances.
Assaulting me! The darkness comes to be
in devil’s guise. Phantom haunts my mind;
in sleep paralysis I cannot flee -
insanity bleeding through ruined rind.
I’m humbled now and at your merciless
whims and words afflicting by your whipping
cruelty I’d endured and what of this -
stranglehold of fear that is so gripping.
The trauma it inflicts does overwhelm
in present as it did in madness past,
as Hypnos slips me blackened nightmare’s realm
my sanity becomes a lone outcast.
Stalking specter and there’s no protections,
I’m the victim with my mind in confines,
house of mirrors broken your reflections;
antagonistic mania still shines.
My life with you; you’re still inside my head,
though self-destruction chose as your fare-well.
Subconsciously you infiltrate with dread
as incubus revenge becomes my Hell.
Susan Ashley
September 23, 2018
*Hypnos: the ancient Greek god of sleep*
Competence is seldom loud—yet confidence often is.
A charismatic smile may persuade a crowded room that wisdom has arrived,while judgment quietly waits outside.
Psychopathy,hidden beneath a layered mask,borrows the language of empathy without carrying its weight.
Its mirrors reflect only what others long to see.
The victim,neither wholly believed nor wholly forgotten,drifts between the sea and the sky—where truth dissolves into distance,and horizons become courtrooms of uncertainty.
To the practiced eye,the mask is never the face.
Charm is not conscience.
Persuasion is not integrity.
Performance is not compassion.
The sea remembers every foot print washed from its shore.
The sky remembers every silence that no witness heard.
And some where between them,where evidence struggles against illusion,stands the fragile human soul,waiting for perception to surrender to truth.
You were not real.
But I gave you every real part of me.
Stitched you from sighs I didn’t release
and silences that lingered too long.
I traced your face in fogged mirrors,
named you in the ache before sleep.
You kissed me in dreams
but left my lips colder when I woke.
You said all the right things,
because I wrote your dialogue.
Touched me the way I needed,
because I taught you where I hurt.
I know I shouldn’t lean on you the way I do,
But my heart is too fragile,
torn, and the seams don’t fit.
So let me hold you longer,
hug you tighter
because love is safest when it’s pretend.
The Cadence of Loneliness
A clock with melted hands strikes nine in my suspended room,
My spine is an old bridge that collapsed beneath the weight of a name,
The sun and moon are the same mask worn in turns by one cursed face,
And in place of your face, only a black hole breathes into my world.
No one waits for me at the door, only a lamp burning without a wick, silent,
My house has doors that keep opening into other houses, never into me,
When I can do whatever I want, with no voice demanding an account from me,
What do you call that: an empty top hat turned toward the sky, or just a cage with no lock?
My days fall like cards from a deck held by a faceless hand,
Depression catches me mid-stride, a trapdoor hidden beneath the stage of my life,
I fall through the floor of time, through mirrors that show me no morning anymore,
Only a mute magician clapping his hands, showing me the same stars again.
The bartender pours into my glass an old spell, extinguished, without fire, without sparks,
It's time itself dressed in a tailcoat, pouring out forgetting, round after round, silent,
I drink the dead elixir from empty bottles, searching for the warmth of some god's eyes,
But the liquor changes nothing anymore — it only numbs the unborn emptiness.
What am I, really — a dream wandering through someone else's skin, or a nameless illness?
If it's just a phase, then name it, blind magician, from behind the curtain,
Behind you I see a chorus of shadows, other players lost through this same world,
All asking, like me, where the line is between guilt and innocence.
I walk on, alone, through a labyrinth of mirrors with no reflections,
With my tired steps, searching for a threshold that keeps retreating further,
I carry in my chest the same old question, woven through a thousand connections,
What is freedom, and what is just loneliness wearing a mask of silk, so often?