Long Moth eaten Poems
Long Moth eaten Poems. Below are the most popular long Moth eaten by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Moth eaten poems by poem length and keyword.
Under leaden skies where shadows gather,
We look back at the great tragedy of the ages,
Since the Enlightenment, we admire the shattered dreams,
Where optimists, as architects of false hopes,
Have woven the warp of fear and bitter fury.
The fire of illusion rose like a falling star,
Its light shining over darkened lands,
But the flames of dreams became burning infernos,
Where angel wings and the voices of humanity burned in darkness.
In the ash temples of the troubled past,
The ghosts of the Holocaust and the Gulag whisper,
Great crimes, born of dazzling mirages,
Are painted on the canvas of history, by the hand of unbridled desire.
On the night sky, we weave constellations of despair,
From dead stars and galaxies of remorse,
We are not surprised that illusions have nourished deep wounds,
When those drunk on hopes created ruins of desire.
The palaces of dreams were built on abysses,
In labyrinths of longing and eternal deceptions,
Their towers, constructed from the sands of time,
Collapsed under the desert weight of empty promises.
Fallen angels weep in the recesses of memory,
On wings broken by ideals too high for humanity,
And the souls that believed in earthly edens,
Found only desolate fields, filled with sorrow and silence.
Gazing towards unknown horizons,
In this timeless scene of immortality,
The optimist wanders, an alchemist of his own disaster,
Turning the gold of hope into the lead of eternal regret.
And beyond the mist of time, in complete unknowing,
Only echoes of lost illusions remain,
There, where the curtain is moth-eaten,
We see only masks and spirits that dance in silence.
In the mystic darkness of our existence,
Lies the painful truth of our dreams,
In a cosmic chaos that intertwines hope and ruin,
The optimist and the pessimist, united in the infinite dance of destiny.
In a world burning under the weight of its own infernality,
Empty words destroy suffering like a lost art.
Those who write only for applause and hollow idols birth dead phrases,
Devoid of pulse and blood, fragile facades of pure expression.
True writing is an exorcism, a confrontation with the depths of the soul,
Not a begging for validation, but a dance with inner shadows.
When the writer is carried away by fame and fortune,
They become just another floating object on the river of futile illusions.
It is a lie to write for money and fame,
A lie to seek the praises of literary snobbery.
Authentic writing is born from necessity, from a burning urgency,
Not a spectacle for crowds, but an escape from oneself.
Many writers, like gladiators, spill their blood,
To satisfy the modern Caesar, the hungry crowd.
Circumstances and misfortunes are insignificant to the writer,
They write through hunger, despair, and the slow erosion of hope.
The true creator does not wait for ideal conditions,
Does not seek refuge in comfort, does not complain about obstacles.
Excuses are the refuge of those who lack the inner fire,
Souls afraid of the weight of their own words.
For the one truly called to write, there is no choice,
Only necessity, for writing becomes an act of survival.
I may be hungry, homeless, wet, and in debt,
But if I write, that is enough, enough to give shape to silence.
To write means to cast meaning onto the arid page of existence,
To give form and style to the unspoken, an act as essential as breathing.
It is not enough to drown the world in moth-eaten words,
The world is already drowning in them, in clichés and empty talk.
If you must write, let it be because you must,
Because you have something original to say, something vital from within yearns for light.
You do not write because you want to say something; you write because you have something to say,
A final confession, a revelation cast into the eternal void.
Written: May 09, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Constance La France
Quote: "There is a loneliness more precious than life, there is a freedom more precious than the world." By Rumi
****************
The frosty night breeze embraces me tight,
Such as a moth-eaten shield, enticing flight.
Bitter rain lashes against the sidewalk face,
Delicate drops pirouette, each finding its place.
Visions flicker by in headlight, fleeting beams,
Love's echoes glimmer akin to vanished dreams.
How jaded lovers lose spark, turning strangers,
Specters in their home, now cloaked in danger.
Foreign dialects speak in words we once knew,
Widening cracks claim seismic shifts through.
Still, optimism clings as I traverse the city chill,
Dreams still nudge that love may cure what is ill.
Silent tears trace paths down my weary skin,
Longing for dawn light, for a raw start within.
As the sun rises, distances wantonly wane,
As rainfall fuels flowers, may our link heal again.
Whether virtual or actual paths cross,
aye great thee ahoy
no fear Mademoiselle or Monsieur,
thy harried style haint cloy
rather, when embarking
on introductory acquaintance
ship, aye employ
swiftly tailored indistinguishable,
asper this wordsmith mebbe goy
or Jew, yet genealogically
thine Semitic lineage,
unknown descendants begat,
one generation after
stitched another thread,
whence warp and woof, sans dat
(moth eaten tattered wool worth
coat of arms), twas slim and/or fat
chance biologic dice throw
adumbrated me Matt,
a skinny, quirky,
and nerdy kid, who sat
alone during lunchtime
at school pained, plagued,
and pronounced with extreme,
where introversion didst agitate
chronic state of misery being alive
immobilized, hogtied, and forfeited
natural predilection
to discover and create
heterosexual relationships,
viz interpersonal experiences
re: raison to date
initial intimate rapport
(anxiety fraught) fate
full situation with a gal
giving her good grief great
(yes, twas Maryann Sage),
who understandably became irate
predicated on lack
of mine demonstrative affection
quickly becoming an unsuitable mate
though now in retrospect
(hindsight always 20/20)
a sudden resurgent spate
finds remembrance of things passed
(with her) engendering
cerebral tete a tete
rankling memories,
hence for death aye cannot wait!
I took my periodic stroll through the local antique store today.
I stumbled over things and stepped 'round clutter to make my way!
I looked for clocks - found none, but saw many things I could do without,
And those are the things that I propose to tell you all about!
There was an old buggy wheel - I could see no use for that!
I saw horse collars, washboards and someone's stuffed Angora cat.
Hanging on the wall was an austere Victorian guy glaring back at me.
Prominently displayed was a chamber pot and scraggly Christmas tree!
What use have I for a manure fork or hubcaps for a '47 Dodge,
Or a shaggy buffalo robe or shriveled scalps from an Indian lodge!
Displayed were empty cigar boxes and empty Prince Albert cans,
A portrait of Napoleon and hood ornament for a '27 Mercedes Benz!
I saw a set of 1920 Brittanica Encyclopedias and a Corona typewriter,
Well-worn snowshoes, a tuning fork and strangely, a bishop's mitre!
Hanging on a clothes rack was an old soldier's moth-eaten uniform.
What on earth would I do with a hornet's nest once hosting an angry swarm!
Leaning against a wall was a hood and bumper for a '37 Ford Tudor.
On a shelf was a gas mask and tin helmet from the First World War!
Though I found many things I could do without, not so with my spouse!
She bought a cart full of gimcracks and trumpery to clutter up the house!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
alternate long worded title – the grudge holder from one generation to the next for all intents and purposes remains the same, and thus interestingly enough, they can easily be a pinch hitter for man, woman, and/or child feeling resentment since dawn (or eventual dusk) of civilization and dominant species experiences discontents.
Hotmail outlook grim, viz beholding
warp and woof reconciliation,
at social gatherings time and agin
mass elf listened to threnody
inducing dot bin
reiterated within earshot,
when this then mortal mwm
clocked LVIII Earthlinked
round the sun, while he
tugged hairs on
his chinny chin chin
now clearly informs thyself,
how genealogical
weave incorporating din
gee, holey, bunched
gaps rendering incomplete
thine quilted worm,
and moth eaten
delicate webbed weave
thread bare fabric
evinces absent majority descendents,
not more'n two generations past
equally substantially rotten produce
junction bore inquisitiveness
upon approaching mine
middle adult existence
details known istenig to WXPN
I whiz a boot
thirteen (NOT shoesize),
benchmarked with virulent yen
twittering, snapchatting, instagramming
Bugaboo gainsaid, infiltrated subUrban
bedroom and kindled pinterest the
reddit lee making me
an outcast with Penny
Sylph Vanya (amidst prickly
Poker Flats of
Lake Woebegone), when
trumpet call to
erect an invisible
omnipotent fence still
did not obstruct hearty ten
to cros the Rio Grande
among strong men
many sharing first name Sven
purportedly related moost every one
placed when newborn among
one of many scattered orphan
(deliberate poisoned, sans scorpian
subsequently kid
napped by vested gentry,
who shared microscopic strands
plus CRISPR DNA
compliments of Ken
and Barbie, nonetheless forced
as stoop labor for
Old flame memories, and game show repeats,
viewed through tobacco, it's smoke fills the room,
loneliness, only, stays glued to defeat,
blue-bottles, can't help, but choke on the gloom.
Dreams like the remote, corroded to rust,
unopened, unpaid, bills sit by the door,
surrendered and lost, to despair and dust,
no-one levelled up, around here for sure.
Each day's an ashtray, of stub filled regret,
while moth eaten drapes, block out the world's light,
another neat gin, will help to forget,
added indifference, towards day and night.
The blocked drains and sink, dirty old dishes,
all that remains of, yesterday's wishes.
Antiques and Curios
A collection of Antiques and curios,
Covered in dust on a cellar floor.
Things once made for a purpose,
No longer of use anymore.
Record Player with wind-up handle,
Once sung out the old Seventy-eights.
A music box with broken spring,
Film scores of the all-time greats.
Gas mask, unused in a chest,
A wartime ration book, stained, slightly torn.
Hobnail working boots, coal black,
Scuffed at the toes, well worn.
An old encyclopedia, open at page 12,
Dwarf stars, Meteors and Asteroid,
The mysteries of our Solar system
and a Comet we may need to avoid.
Vintage clothes in leather suitcase,
Fashionable back in the year.
Someone would probably buy them,
For the right price, not too dear.
Pots and Pans of Copper and Tin,
Ornamental handles and lid.
Hard to imagine they were ever used,
But, by the signs of wear, someone did.
A collection of old newspapers,
Bismarck disabled and sunk,
A periodical about holy orders,
The life and times of a Monk.
Moth eaten Teddy Bear, only one eye,
Tracks for a blue clockwork train.
Toy soldiers of lead, standing proud,
Down somebody’s memory lane.
I began to feel rather intrusive,
An invasion of a man’s private life;
Never to know treasures keeper,
Was he at war, leaving children and wife.
An assemblage of curiosities,
To move them would feel such a crime.
I will leave everything undisturbed,
Treasured by someone of the time.
Blindly..
I beseech you
for my eyes won’t adjust
to this shaded maze of despair -
neither the lantern’s flame
nor a compass rose can help me now
in disrepair I need to find you
with fingers outstretched I raise my arms
groping for you like a eyeless babe for her mother
..but you’re not there —
a cunning thief this despair
for stealing my sight for a way out
Why won’t the summer solstice light this darkness
nor warm this anguished atmosphere..
am I to die here where I lie?
my undressed soul exposed to the wind-chill of your loss
naked in biting throes beneath a stony sun
desperate to thaw ice dams lodged in my bloodstream..
the winter sallow of my heart’s shallows a skater’s delight —
a cunning partner this despair..
ice-dancing with my pain
Where is the air I need to breathe..?
it’s evaporated with you and the dreams we used to dream
the weaver a double-dealer stealer..
life no longer lives in my poker-faced lifestyle
nor in fantasies long gone from sleep’s clouds
moth-eaten desires and grit and tears
too holey and harsh to knit a warm reason to swaddle in -
just let me close heavy hope-chest-lids of empty eyes
and take my last shrinking violet breath —
a cunning spy this despair
for infiltrating my will to survive..
Susan Ashley
October 11, 2020
N/A
Premiere Contest: 2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 22
Sponsor: Mark Toney
(reformatted)
~ First Place ~
Contest: Will To Survive
Sponsor: Silent One
I pawn my prayers for a handful of hunger and the clerk calls it salvation.
One's halo's on hire purchase cracked chrome still sticking on the devil's desk.
I trade mercy by the minute marked down,moth eaten!,mislabeled as hope.
My heartbeat haggles with hell drumming debt into my desperate dawns.
My tears come with interest,each drop a receipt stamped *Final Hell.*
The Spirit goes AWOL on paydays,replaced by plastic faith and payday psalms.
Heaven's door has a coin slot but my pockets cough only dust.
I'm a ghost on consignment groaning in gospel tones for one more breath of grace.
Angels appraise my agony and cry,"too used,too human,too late."
I sing in chains proud and penniless,a prophet of pawned redemption, my soul on layaway.