Long Necrotic Poems
Long Necrotic Poems. Below are the most popular long Necrotic by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Necrotic poems by poem length and keyword.
Black butterflies flutter through the courtyard carelessly,
their folly flitting through variegated foliage, creating
worlds so breathtaking so as to not be real, just as
imperial belladonna bows in reverence to Mother,
thankful for the necrotic nectar that will soon
be on their dying breath
Black butterflies drink turtle's tears to race streetlights
past yellow tape, the words that read "Do Not Cross"
a foreign language for anthromorphs with velvet eyes
on their back, giving insider views, behind the lines
declining the advances of bluebonnets, fixated
on Iris's crescent wings
Black butterflies are sticklers about their traditions,
many may even call them creatures of habit, but
they progressed their ideas about chrysalises
after watching their cousins crawling out of
cocoons, knowing there's no better way to
live than in spun silk
7/14/2025
Oh, how could this have ever happened here?
A free naton with baseball, movies and beer?
Those days when other nations cry against the USA…….DIE?
I think on tha, when we turned far left… America’s very soul died.
Those who so loathe and hate our free nation.
Created conspiracy theories,like…boll weevils.
They would do anything to destroy this nation and make America evil?
None of us realizing, how this would divide all of us.
A necrotic snake filled some, like decaying green pus.
And the proof is in the yowling streets of PA is heard .
Of misled shouts of hate, like some insane, hysterical, mysteriuos birds.
Many people died but many unaware, people could care less!
They much prefer riotinh and lies and walk in a state of mental undress.
Our streets full of both USA and Israeli shrill haters.
In masks and flags,green flafs~ such insane, victim baiters.
That “religious” mantra shouted aboard the 9/11 plaines,
Rings in my tender ears, like an exploding, crashing train.
And you didn’t make me
I formed myself
From the periodic table
with a little help
You added slurs and
blackened my milk
Turned me into a scapegoat
and my flesh to filth
And you never broke me
I smashed up myself
Unseen fractures
healed wrong by themselves
Broke the mold early
was looking too good
Patriarchally cast
as the whore of love
And you cannot destroy me
I’ll do it by myself
Sick of covering up
what never turned out
The unseen twists
and labyrinth of lies
I’ve no f*cking soul
a doubt, or denial
And you’ll never fix me
It’s down to myself
I look in the mirror
pondering why else
All this potential
rotting away inside
Necrotic failure
unrepairable child
And I cannot be forgiven
I’ll find a way myself
For being too perfect
lacking self respect
On freak show earth
a man made planet
falling to bits
You pious can have it
greatest story ever written ~ will not be penned with a kids mitten
apples perhaps said she to Adam ~ my fruits were never forbidden
a fig leaf rose one more fell ~ as the whore of man Lilith got bitten
Written: September 29, 2025, for contest sponsored by Tom Wood
***********
I) Sojourn of the Alabaster Mind
I careen through a world of chatoyant light,
Each step is a mirror of halcyon lore.
The pavonine sky and a chimera flight,
Projects sage shadows on an Elysian shore.
A clamor of atlas, a ductile tickle
Elixir of wonder, still need to fickle—
To pursue the penumbra, to not be blind,
And a sojourn for the alabaster mind.
II) The Necrotic Hour
I maunder across the clangor of despair,
A stertorous breath in the stygian gloom.
No nepenthe soothes within egregious snare,
Each cough is a pyrrhic echo in my room.
The airhead mocks my once-mellifluous breath
My Oculus dims in sudden fever death.
No eloquence lives in this loathsome abyss—
My nemesis: the sickness can't be sheer bliss.
Written: September 15, 2025, for a contest sponsored by John Lawless
*********
Perhaps it was never love—
just a fipple of breath in velvet dusk,
a suction of names unspoken,
burnished by the stygian hush
between your glance and mine.
Perhaps the ossuary sang first—
an aria of alabaster bones,
each note a necrotic lullaby.
We writhed in the molten ache,
palliating truth with ephemera,
inveigled by the aureate hush
of what we dared not name.
Perhaps this is the Desideratum—
a triptych of sacred forgetting,
Lethe in a chalice of dedication,
The hex of hope is still undulating
beneath our slack-jawed silence.
People from all nations running for Their Lives, Pursued by Hamas.
That day 1,200 were slaughtered.
International hostages died! Few live ones do remain.
I do not even know what day this is!
Nor month, or even, what year!
For I live each day within a clock.
Whose only sound ticks away endless,fear!
I have no mirror to see my young face,
Just locked in a room by mad barbarians,
Absent are they, of a trace of the human race .
My family, all my friends, taken from my life..
My treatment, hardly an ounce, humanitarian!
I assume I am probably still, just twenty four..
I was dragged in bloody violence from the “Nova
Concert for Peace” dance floor!
By inhumane, brutish men, who dragged me across
my country’s fertile fieds!
They hit and assaulted me, in a car because I fought,
and no, I would not yield!
I heard the screams of death, the gunshots, unbearable!
I hear them still, they shake the memories, so potent!
that the necrotic plant in my window sill, sways.!
No sun, no blue sky, do I see, not one friend to hug me?
Window boarded up, and slices of bread a day …are three!
Animals, so-called men, blindfold me, and use me for their
everyday, multiple times, I weep!
They try to make me cry each day, while I try to sleep.
But being an Israeli woman, a Sabra, with a strong will!
This in one pleasure they steal, u do my best, may they not fulfill!
I can only dream that your own country backs Israel!
I beg you to hear my voice, to please pray for me!
You have the free voice to back my country, to set me free.
I am a prisoner, a hostage, with no family, friends or choice.
Can you~yes, you~honor my Jewish voice?
Shalom~
Israeli hostage in Gaza
Written: September 9, 2025, for contest sponsored by: Rob Carmack
Quote: "Lovers have heartaches that can't be cured by drugs or sleep, or games, but only by seeing their beloved" By Rumi
**********
In the garland of ailments, we sip nepenthe,
anodyne tinctures in elegant flasks—
murmurous promises, beauteous masks,
each fard a façade, each pill a palimpsest
of pain rewritten in mellifluous ink.
Pneumology sings in stertorous sighs,
dyspnea dances under the aegis of relief.
We stroll through the lanes of this lush haven.
The breathtaking tablets gaze into bliss.
What trendy medicine pills and supplies
Supply human beings with many ways to support?
I share on the matter of preventing slurs.
The breakdown of moiety and the rise of risk.
For even the most ductile clay
may crumble in the quagmire of misuse.
In the seraglio of spurious bliss,
the simple and the iconoclast alike
grasp the absurdity of escape.
Acherontic powders, hexed and hissing,
wafture through the penumbra of parties,
where flapdoodle masquerades as rapture.
fear grips the veins—
a jussive urge, impetuous and egregious.
We extemporize joy, inhale incarnadine dusk,
and resile from reason with pertinacity.
turbulent dawns, wan and woebegone,
usher in ischemia’s kiss,
a paucity of comeliness,
a summary of sorrow.
The lush becomes lurid,
the sumptuous turns stygian.
Even the most miraculous odyssey
may cease in necrotic silence.
Meliorism in time to come
Yet still, amid the desiccation,
a scintilla of optimism coruscates.
The riparian soul, lithe and lit with Love,
may manipulate a raw moiety of meaning.
Through the shield of empathy,
the one who heals
may reclaim the palimpsest of self.
Not all who inhale are lost—
Some merely seek the empyrean
through alternate doors.
Let us not belittle
the addict, the patient, the seeker.
Each belongs to a consanguineous ilk
of yearning, of zoetic ache.
So let us offer not just palliation,
but propinquity,
not just summary judgment,
but the sacred burnished balm
of understanding.
Let Love be the panacea,
let compassion be the coruscation
that flickers in the penumbra
of every pharmacological night.
Written: August 14, 2025, for Contest Sponsored by: Anoucheka Gangabissoon
*******
I writhed in the womb of a necrotic hush,
a stygian silence where barghests lurk—
My slack-jawed soul, sodden with oblivion lull,
clanged against the obelisk of despair.
The wound, a molten mouth of aurora,
sizzled with sacred suction—
a fipple of fire, ineffable and fecund,
where pestilence pirouetted with puissance.
I danced—yes, I danced—
in the desiccation of my demise,
a gavotte of soulfulness,
My blood is a rubicund aria of rapture.
Alabaster bones bore the torque of truth,
Each fracture is a triptych of ephemera and flame.
I was a poltergeist of my former self,
grappling through the noosphere multivocal maze.
The stench of bygone hexes clung to lava rock,
But I, stalwart and sinewed with mettle.
careened past the clamor of puerile pabulum,
past the gossamer glamor of grief.
I was broken—yes—
but bold enough to resuscitate,
to regale the necromancy of my rebirth,
to supplant sorrow with the sacred sizzle of self.
Now I stand, an empyrean echo,
a veridical vestige of velvet versatility—
my heart, a burnished niche of noble hope,
My spirit resembles a smooth, celestial sunset.
Let the world scrutinize my scars,
They are not grotesque—they are garrulous.
They speak in tongues of alchemy and amaranthine ache,
a quixotic quiddity, a quintessence of comeback.
Cool throngs of stars formed one vast arm to sweep
the coal-black clockface of the sky. To watch it
was to reel beneath the slow, imperious creep
of the never-ending circle. One could reach out,
it seemed, and almost touch the tart cicada song
which throbbed in soft insistent insect waves
with formlessness of drizzle, mass of stone.
But more than these, the patient ancients blazed
blackness from their gnarled necrotic trunks,
more ominously sensed than seen, and bled
into the dark those summer suns they'd drunk,
as tired as immortality, as dense as death.
We hope on heartbeats, count on slivers of light,
but hear within our blood the rhythm of night.
The bricks were sweating, nervous. Icy slime
had soaked his coat-sleeve, much to his disgust.
Tall baulks of formless timber seemed to climb
towards the bulbous shadows. Guido, trussed
and pinioned, tried to scratch the saline rime
that nagged his upper lip (for scratch he must),
using his shoulder. Someone’s hand-held lamp
was scouring crazy patterns on the damp.
As Fisc officials fidgeted and fussed,
Count Guido, motionless, gouged free of Time,
stared at the torture implements. Nonplussed,
unravelled, unaware of glare or grime,
he saw steel jaws, unsoftened by stale dust.
The hanging chains, when brushed, gave up a chime
as sinister as that serrated clamp
which dominated all the waiting ramp.
The irony was utterly sublime.
They’ll “put him to the question”, as discussed.
As fitted the prevailing paradigm,
They’d tear his vitals, gouge him, drill him, thrust
their white-hot spikes quite through him, till his crime
was suitably admitted, as was “just”.
Some may withstand the pincers’ chew and champ,
but Guido knew he wasn’t of that stamp.
His eyes had hardly started to adjust.
Prolonging this perverted pantomime
would only satisfy the sadists’ lust.
If necessary, he’d recant in rhyme.
His knuckles scraped the carapace of rust
of some utensil, which this fetid clime
so soon engendered. Turning to decamp,
he felt no pain beyond necrotic cramp.