Long Prophecy Poems
Long Prophecy Poems. Below are the most popular long Prophecy by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Prophecy poems by poem length and keyword.
Like the UNICORN
At times I fear I am the mysterious of all animals
Like the Unicorn, I myself do not feel real
My inner beauty is the only thing to conceal
I am my own mythological creature
Roaming souls with a little will power to heal
Ages of my forgotten tear
Like the Unicorns a prophecy so unclear
I compare your beauty to be the eyes of stare
I am a magical power so rare
Absorbing the energy of the sun into a spear
I appear like the wild horse
I have no feelings of real existence, my life with no compare
Embracing all memories to disappear
Wasting away absorbing nature's life
GONE!
Haunted down by a hunters knife
Thousands of wolves hungry to eat me alive
Fallen legends and myth
Pondering in a past life who I am
I feel a touch upon my bones
Am I he the Unicorn
A horse with one horn
Unlike the Unicorn who fell to exist
My suffering really does exist
How I wish everything was fake
To be like you hiding upon the mist
Like the Unicorn who is a horse with no horn
Like a nobody when my life slips into the abyss
A depth of wishing to have never been born
With the vision of Heaven’s Realm with a Unicorn twist
Like the Unicorn who only exist in Legends and Myth.
I come and go like a blown kiss
Shedding tears feeling all alone
I want to be like the Unicorn who are bound to roam
Take me away from this wonders of thorns
Give me a magic Medallion to free myself from the pits
Infatuated with the gorgeous Unicorn
A passion among beauty is where I exist
by:
God forgive me for being opinionated
For not all of us are fuchsia infactuated
With that young peacock preacher
Watch him puff up proud to lead her
To her denim despair
From the pulpit to satin’s pit
You see they had a ten year affair
Wow look at his ego glow
Neon on ions of black pride
She did a Facebook post
A tell all and then she cried
But her photos although damning
Were like spamming
The church will forgive him
But not her
He is a habitual fornicator
A loose lip ladies leech
Instead of removing him
They will only lift him up
And pray he keeps his gift of prophecy
Despite the hypocrisy
The money keeps flowing
Congregation keeps growing
Imagine the clouds gathering above start to swirl
with hypnotic movement heavy rains begin to fall
the scent of the sea permeates, you inhale brisk salty air
and the angry waves divulge their impious white tip curls.
Imagine floating in the darkness of time
and your imagination speaks enchanting words
came back; come back to the lure of the ancient seas
into a prism of darkness, whispering its tapestry of rhyme.
Imagine drifting back in time, to the time before
when spirits walked, when the earth was new
back in time to the time when the red moon rose
and the Gods walked along its dim and distant shores.
Imagine far across the sea, the black walls of Hell
stretching forth to the sky where both sky and sea
darken into blackness, and the black clouds pause
then stir again as the angry sea heaves and swells.
Imagine the blood moon peering in the horizon
beckoning the mystics of the sea, chanting
come to me; come to me, come to me,
then the serpents of the sea, they begin risin’.
Imagine a mist emerging from the distant shore
spreading death along its lethal silent path
pausing briefly then heaves aside the shadows
with more of sovereignty than ancient lore
Imagine somewhere in that scene faces without names
filled with wisdom and skilled in prophecy,
beneath a vast space, of which is a tempest
with rolling billows, and tongues of electric flames.
Imagine floating above the angry waves
Whispering the words of the oracle
come to me, come to me, ever and anon
to the depth beneath, to the sailor’s watery graves.
Imagine now the calming seas;
Blue skies, white clouds, and
The solemn twilight of a new day;
Imagine the timber of this gentle breeze.
The hands of the clock do not tick,
they tremble.
Every second feels like a warning,
a drumbeat pulling us closer
to something we pretend not to see.
The air is heavy with omens.
The sky bleeds strange colors at dusk,
as if it knows
our arrogance has reached its peak.
We build towers higher,
we burn the ground hotter,
we pray to machines
and call it progress.
But deep down,
we hear it,
the grinding of gears behind the universe,
the slow unraveling
of a world stretched too thin.
This is the dark side of belief:
when prophecy becomes memory,
when chaos is not coming,
but already here.
And yet,
there is still a choice.
To turn away from the fire
or walk straight into it.
To keep our heads bowed in sleep
or lift them,
eyes open,
hearts braced,
ready to face the storm we made.
The clock burns.
The shadows lengthen.
And in this fragile moment,
I wonder,
are we doomed,
or are we finally awake?
I remind myself
It’s not my job
To make my text
Easy to respond to
I don’t need to ask a question
Or wonder if my statement is enough
To warrant a response beyond
“Yeah”
I remind myself
It’s not my job
To teach you how to love
To show you that commitment
Doesn’t mean
Confinement
You saw me as a cell you placed yourself in
You turned yourself in and expected me
To lock the door
But when I left the keys in the lock
And told you to do whatever you want
You abused freedom as if
You didn’t turn yourself in
You ran like you had never run before
And pushed every single boundary
Because I never demanded better
You wanted confinement
because that is how you see love
A girlfriend
A woman should be a burden
Conveniently, we were both raised to think that way
Maybe that’s why we fit so well
As a woman, I needed to be easy
Easy to talk to
Easy to placate
Easy on the eyes
And it felt like a self fulfilling prophecy
The boy who didn’t know how to love
And the girl who tried to be the perfect lover
You wanted me on your arm
On your lap
At your convenience
And to disappear when something better came along
And I wanted to be easy
I only wanted to be easy because I knew
I knew you wouldn’t think it was worth it if I wasn’t
This does not come from a place of self deprecation
I know very well what I deserve
But it comes from a place of unfortunate understanding
Of how you see me
A love so shallow cannot hold a woman so deep
I became water
Willingly
Because I didn’t care if it wasn’t right
I wanted you to love me
And I am perfectly worthy of love exactly the way that I am
But I know you
And I know I would be too much effort
I remind myself
It’s not my job to teach you
How to love me
As I am
But god, I wish you did
And I know you do
And maybe that’s why I love you
Because you love me in a way I have never been loved before
Certainly not in a good way
But in a new way
I remind myself
It isn’t healthy
But god
When you pull me into a kiss
And whisper “I love you”
My body aches in a way that feels like an addiction
I remind myself
That addictions kill
But god
When you’re smiling at me
The pain melts away
Under the blissful high
Of a hundred useless reminders
x Once, one Incisive
Life went forth in
steadfast quest to
challenge both
prevailing laws
and social norms
that required all
strictly conform.
Corrupt religious sophistry and callous Rome's supremacy combined to weave
the tapestries of unrelenting tyranny. Defeating both should therefore deed
to Mankind this uplifting creed: exalt freedom and righteousness - exclude all
venal worldliness. Such quest by faith devotedly extolled in ancient prophecy.
The path chosen
though proved
to be a martyr's
tread implicitly.
While we revere
such sacrifice,
that principles
define one's life,
this story seeds
a fertile ground
where fact and
fiction both are
found. Though,
change whereby
might surely be
contained within
this verity: his
gifts of heartfelt
empathy, and also
gracious charity,
as well as moral
decency; Compas-
sion for our frailties.
Yet, praising too the Golden Rule, its promise ever worth renewal.
Joel 2:28
And afterward, I will pour out my Spirit on all people. Your sons and daughters will prophesy, your old men will dream dreams, your young men will see visions.
It will not be reserved—
not for temples,
nor for thrones.
The Spirit will come
like rain on cracked ground,
falling freely on
sons with burning tongues,
daughters with open palms,
the old who dare to dream again,
the young who carry fire in their eyes.
Prophecy will not wear robes,
nor visions wait for wisdom's age.
It will pour out—
on all flesh,
like wind through dry bones,
like breath once held too long.
And the world will tremble
at the sound of voices
that once were still.
Sometimes in Virginia when the scorching madness of xenophobia conspires
with a fragile, violent countenance, I fall to the darkest, bitter poison.
And in that carnage, a nation learns of impending destruction.
But the sounds of heaven like an unstoppable flood, poor over New Orleans and
comfort forlorn victims of embedded justice.
I am men, putting women in cages for birds, beautiful yet bound, loved but
unappreciated.
I am women, forsaking my sisters as they struggle to understand my privilege.
I tell you I am a paradoxical reflection of power and fear, love and vengeance.
And I am unstable.
And when the weight of unpaid wages reaches the precipice of doubt in young
impressionable prisoners of comparison, husbands shoot their children and run
to the abyss.
But I tell you there is a sound of redemption in Jill Scott prophecy and Bell Hooks’
gentle wisdom.
I tell you there is a sound of heaven that leaves me fearless, come what may.
Today, I went swimming with my daughter with a final exam the next day.
And in that moment, I knew that this crucible, does not rule me, bind me, or
define me.
Whatever this is, this unstable suffering of paradoxical reflection.
It does not rule me.
For I am an image of a sacrifice so sublime, that the gates of hell, pain,
conquest, or corporate idolatry cannot stand against it.
And in the end, I know peace forever.
Gentle Wise Woman put on her embroidered priestess robes.
It was the evening of the Ulc Cycle Moon.
She carefully laid out her table in the most mystical way she could remember.
Like her grandmother and her grandmother’s grandmother.
Being the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter
Insured even if she did it wrong, she would be right.
She carefully selected the items for her table.
A bowl of spring water, a sprig of violet leaf, amethyst and agate.
A beautiful green luna moth fluttered past, his eyes winking at her.
She felt loved by the forest, more than ever.
Thank you Mother Moon, she said.
The forest was dark, but there was no fear.
She felt joy.
The last item selected was her rune pouch.
She shook three runes out, and studied them.
Her young daughter who had been watching asked “What do they say?”
Her voice was a whisper. She was in awe of her amazingly mystical mother.
“That you will have the best life ever,” her mother assured her.
Laurel was young and innocent at six.
She was not about to give her this kind of prophecy.
She would find out soon enough.
Sadness could begin tomorrow.
This was a night for joy, a night to
Commune with spirit.
She felt her grandmother coming for her.
They would dance under the willows until morning.
Mind is racing
Limbs are aching
I feel the end is nigh
All alone in night unending
Time a torturous lie.
Brain fermenting
Thoughts fragmenting
Shatter in glass shards
Fingers soon to dust returning
Hold fast my deck of cards
Fear is mounting
Heart is pounding
I know the end is nigh
My sight long gone, still I see
Those shards light up the sky
Children laughing
Old friends calling
From a distant shore
Mem’ries of a life unsparing
And a time that is no more
The time it passes,
through the darkness
With teeth so sharp pain bites
Missive from cassandra spinning
Prophecy I cannot fight.
Life and loving
True belonging
No more need I pretend
Gave life a go, decried its blows,
My hand I played to the very end.