Long Sepulchral Poems
Long Sepulchral Poems. Below are the most popular long Sepulchral by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sepulchral poems by poem length and keyword.
The river of love is dry, heart is dead,
music sepulchral, both had wept and said,
the door is locked and silence reigns within,
the battle is lost, nothing here to win.
tears no longer flow, and no reason to,
the birds fly past in silence as they go,
garden is desolate, roses have dried,
no remorse that the bond has been untied,
who can solve the riddle of broken heart,
where deep love and trust had once played a part,
the fading glimmer of setting evening,
darkness fills where once was new beginning.
No hope or wish to reorder days past,
the field has been scorched black and all is lost,
I walk in slow steps to life on my own,
memories live on, but I shall not mourn.
The Devil’s Soliloquy in Grey
The mists do not rise by chance; they obey. They are the exhaled breath of my boredom, Curling around the jagged peaks of the Balinoks, Choking the valleys in perpetual twilight. I sit upon the high throne of Ravenloft, A needle of black stone piercing an anemic sky, And I look down upon the chessboard of Barovia. The peasants below, shivering in their hovels, Call me "The Devil" when they think the wind isn't listening. Fools. The wind is mine, too.
I remember the warmth of the sun, vaguely, Like a story told by a grandfather I never knew. I traded it for this: cold stone, eternal hunger, And the awful clarity of endless time. I traded a brother’s blood for a crown that never tarnishes, A pact sealed in the amber shadows of a forgotten temple. Now, I am the Ancient. I am the Land. My veins are the rivers, running deep and cold; My eyes are the wolves that watch from the timberline; My spies are the bats hanging like leather fruit in the eaves.
And then, there is Her. The maddening, beautiful cycle. Tatyana. By any name, the same soul, the same doomed visage, The one bright jewel I cannot keep in this sepulchral jewelry box. She returns to me through the generations, A tantalizing phantom just beyond the stained glass. Does she know, this time, in her village beneath the shadow? Does she feel my gaze like a physical weight upon her shoulder? I will burn the world to hold her again, And I will weep blood when she inevitably falls, Only to wait for the wheel to turn once more.
And now, you. The interlopers. Little heroes, stumbling through the Svalich Woods, Armed with holy symbols that feel lukewarm in this godless place, And swords that will dull against my skin. You are fresh meat for the grinder, a pleasant diversion. Come, let me test the mettle of your souls. Let me see if you break with a snap, or bend with a whimper. Accept my invitation. Dine in my halls. Play my game until the amusement fades.
Look up at the spires. Know your insignificance. You are a flickering candle in a hurricane. I am the storm that never ends.
Last night I dreamt of a man gifted,
with mind sound and friends the best;
others' hearts and spirits he lifted,
this dreamt man surely blessed.
Last night I dreamt of a man cursed,
with regrets like doors to the past slammed;
of circumstance low was he well versed,
this dreamt man surely damned.
The blessed met me in a green wood,
and gestured toward a clear pool;
peering in, I saw vicarious memories of good,
of helping, of building, of fighting the cruel.
He spoke to me in a familiar voice,
told of himself, his plans, his past;
gave cause to remember and rejoice,
that some, like this dreamt man, yet stand fast.
The damned met me on a sepulchral city street,
and gestured toward an open doorway;
peering in, I saw vicarious memories of defeat,
of falling, of trying, of walking astray.
He too spoke to me in a familiar voice,
told of himself, his plans, his past;
cautioned to be careful of every choice,
that some, like this dreamt man, know doubt vast.
The blessed and damned met me after in an empty room,
and bade me think on the reflections and words of both;
demanded that I ruminate before wakefulness I was to resume,
desired that I leave with a level of wisdom and growth.
After much thought, I had a terrible insight,
saw how easily one could become another;
on one road lay redemption, the second plight,
each path already walked by the other.
With this hope and fear in equal measure given,
the blessed and damned produced a glass with a shine;
stood abreast and made whole the mirror riven,
and the face inside, in the end, was mine.
*Image of Child Sad Suffering provided by Pixabay.
Not Of This Earth
Poetic Form: Narrative
Asymmetric mistrals warp speckled vaporous pallidness toward rhythmless voids. Obviates an evacuating azure as a midday star pivots to a twilight qualm. Numinous absent souls of supine prying pupils, yon ethers sinister obscurities, caught in stained oblique ocular whites. Drunken sanguineous veins to gluttony as impish tinkers sporadic doubts riveting telltale images. Metallic aerials ousted the clouds to unperceived iniquity.
Exhausting times since the alien armada infested Earth in a furrow of carnage. Abominable hordes disembarked, eviscerated whole metropolises. Hideous beings, an abysmal sight, smothered the remote vestiges of our civilized world. Cities ere their decimation had numbers reduced in fleeing desperation. The annihilation of life on Earth engrossed thoughts upon the scraps of humanity left. Ravenous creatures generating utter rampage to and abroad, slighting none to decay. Be they mortals or breathing existences of our lesser kingdom, perished in the bloodletting. Some kept as breeders for the succession of consuming time.
A cohort strung of plain folks, thrust as one in a nameless realm, sought ephemeral refuge in a subterranean hollow expanse. Bestill for the scarcity of fragile credence as the intrepid one, espy a grotesque glistening of crimson blood, secreting from the sheathed hoariness of fangs. Sentient rouses heedful footfalls per monstrosity exposed jawbone, that swapped shrill for snorts, neath laden eyes that had shrewdly scowling luminous orbs. Creepy anvils pierced hairline, afeared incus, sensitively measures close octaves, spurs the labyrinth's nerves. Alas, its vulgar pelt of bulky fur stretch hither and fro, bars clamors reach.
Cavernous chambered partitions mimic as trepidation ebbs nevertheless. Unceasing progress to that bemused destiny, as anonymous atrocities, plague each within their shells, e'er crucifying the last semblance of their true selves. Ardent impulses seeping via their lithe ruby channels, crossing neath the bits of their betraying skins, as they escape the nebulous sepulchral. Beasts at 6 o'clock, tho' what unknown lurks yon pits facade, save a future yet to be titled.
2021 May 12
—When Matter Remembered It Was Light—
I dwelt within a palimpsest of appearances,
a sepulchral architecture of borrowed forms
where every mirror preserved the vestige
of selves I had mistaken for sovereign truth.
I crowned impermanence with alabaster names,
inscribed my vanishing upon the vellum of hours,
and worshipped the transient splendour of matter
as though dust could inherit the throne of stars.
The body—my first cathedral of illusion—
opened its ossuary corridors of bone and breath;
I wandered its chambers like an heir,
unaware I had merely been entrusted with the keys.
Then you arrived—
not as an apparition summoned from Olympus,
nor as some celestial fire descending through the firmament,
but as an incorporeal hush
that entered the sealed manuscript of my being
and taught the ink its forgotten origin.
Within that silence, the hidden gardens awakened:
black irises unfurling their nocturnal scripture,
myrrh-scented winds crossing abandoned sanctuaries,
and buried rivers reclaiming the ancient music
engraved beneath their own forgetting.
I followed that music beyond desire’s dominion,
beyond the sapphire labyrinths of possession,
beyond the gilded hallucination of permanence,
until my name itself became a fading constellation
drawn briefly upon the breathing darkness.
The mountains remained in their immemorial patience.
The oceans continued their argent liturgy.
The stars kept their distance, untouched and infinite.
Only the illusion of ownership dissolved.
And then I understood—
solidity was never the substance of the world;
it was the momentary crystallisation of longing,
a fragile architecture of light and consciousness,
through which the universe concealed one final mystery:
I was not the vessel through which light entered creation;
I was the brief illusion through which light learned to believe it was separate.
Wandering in sepulchral silence among the artifacts
dredged up from the ocean floor after almost a hundred years
dinner plates, a diamond ring
a pair of patent leather shoes, a deck chair
jeweled combs that once sparkled in a young woman’s hair
under the electric light of the chandeliers
a violin in its case, a porcelain vase
a china doll, another child’s toy
a menu listing the last meal that many would enjoy
a wall upon which were the names
of every person known to have been on board
the exceedingly rich and the profoundly poor
who with high hopes sold all they had
to purchase their third class ticket
Though they were the majority they weren’t a priority
buried as if they were already dead below deck
kept strictly separate, forbidden to be seen
by those whose lives were considered more worthy
by merit of their money
How little has changed in over a century
I entered the last room of the exhibit
my breath creating clouds in the refrigerated air
as I stood before a wall of ice the same temperature
as the salt water that surrounded them that night
twenty seven degrees fahrenheit
My palm went numb when placed upon it
a sensation similar to that of my soul
after a life spent sailing my own stormy seas
I communed with the spirits of the crew
commiserating with those who had frantically fired flares
in a futile search for a savior to come to the rescue
I do the same from my own sinking ship
with no more success
No one sees or no one cares
For now they abide under the earth,
the bedded and dormant,
neither do they wake nor sleep,
but defer and endure
until a sun warmed air
percolates into countless
humming sepulchral lungs.
They are almost here,
the soil is erupting
with their tunneling wings.
They, the unearthing prophets
of tic-toc.
Then the great fistula
as the ground gives them up.
The whirlwind rustling
as trees are invested, claimed,
and proclaimed
in the great swarm
and rubbing-in of now.
Now they begin, the endless sounding,
the cacophony
the innate necessity;
each male a hollow abdomen, a sound box
for the drumming of membranous wing plates.
The brief coupling, then more,
unto death do they pour.
Eggs fall like mist to the ground.
Soon millions of seeded nymphs
will dig in
to begin again an ageless cycle of
species resurrection.
If ears could scream,
they would rend the air
with the shattered glass
of fracturing minds.
We who live as trees do
in the click and clack of their
desperate songs, must grow numb
or bury our senses deep
into our own earth;
try again to forget,
or not to count the long years
to the next pronounced awakening.
In the silence of shadows over the lea,
where daisies journey unhindered all around,
is buried a sweetheart that dearly loved me,
stop by me in contemplation, make no sound!
Who can ever bring back loved ones who are gone?
what gesture or move can turn back marching time?
happiness, laughter and all the cheer when born,
are now replaced by rings of sepulchral chime.
I stay on and on till long shadows creep in,
what place is good for me when my heart is here?
hopes have dried out and my life’s purpose is thin,
I live on lost thoughts and some dreams that bring cheer!
Sleep, dear love, sleep on peacefully for ever,
let not my sorrow hold you to this domain,
sweetheart, we shall meet under heaven’s bower,
I shall ride times chariot, love to regain!
Death is reality of each life there is,
every bright candle meets darkness in the end,
beyond the mourning there is promise of bliss,
to loved ones in God’s heaven, our prayers we send.
would what that be junior? senior? sophomore?
since this brother in law rarely emails,
ye may scrunch countenance puzzled,
or on verge of emitting flatulence,
that if a ripper got let loose (by Jack),
would possibly find ja propelled,
thru Edgar Allan Poe's churchly
sepulchral tintinnabulation
(where for greater effect
yukon envision imagistic ravenous bats
in belfry resonating air,
or perhaps blasted back
to the House of the rising sun),
BUT...gnome hatter,
no win tent may starkly appear
explaining inexplicable reasonable rhyme,
why aye dash communique
minus virtual trumpeting blare
(sorry, but in the interest
of belated birthday cheer,
without computer generated imagery)
rendered hoop fully readable,
sans black and white Scottish matted pixels
constituting beloved appellation
unsure how to address ye perfectly clear
while sitting atop padded office chair,
pondering as already writ,
how to acknowledge thee, whither with dear...
meanwhile, this scribe experiences
comfortably numb derriere,
now scrambling, resorting, and toying
to fetch acceptable, catchy light hearted endear
mint, that seems tolerably acceptable
(of course) with flair
acutely perceptive, though NOT overboard with glare
ring obeisance, NOR USE ALL CAPS
TO SCREAM so ye kin hear
soap hull ease excuse this incurable
Harris scribe with thinning heir
yes...oye gevalt, infantile regression finds me
burrowed in Schwenksville, Pennsylvania lair
still emotionally inchoate, though grown a mere
speck within the flotsam and jetsam near
to boyhood Collegeville abode NOT saved by a prayer
re: home companion bachelor Norwegian farmer
replaced instead by vinyl city
all in the name of progress
which (once a pawn a time)
open farmland did dis app pear
so...a gam bulling gambit
to avoid moseying down Level Road...
may NOT seem *****
for insufferable sadness
with eyes bursting with many a tear...
(gulp) tis best to veer
away from topic uh viz er rated razed homestead,
and mainly wish ye another birth year!
adieu...from math tha hue
A Haunting Waltz
As I recline, wearied, on this eve so dark and dreary,
Whispers in the shadows, tales of Victorian eerie.
The moon, a spectral lantern, spills its ghastly glow on cobblestone streets,
Where specters of yore, in corsets and top hats, discreetly meet.
Beneath flickering gas lamps, secrets deftly concealed,
In murky alleys, truths unfold, a clandestine reveal.
Gloom, thick as velvet, cloaks the halls of this Gothic terrain,
Sorrow and madness entwine in a macabre dance, a haunting refrain.
The ticking clock tolls a mournful chime,
Velvet curtains shiver, echoing a ghostly rhyme.
In the parlor, a specter, veiled in lace,
Dances with memories, a waltz in somber grace.
Haunted whispers, ethereal threads through tapestry and lace,
Betrayals linger, a venomous embrace.
Raven calls echo in the ink-black night,
Tales of sorrow and lost love take ethereal flight.
A portrait on the wall, pallor of despair,
Capturing the essence of a soul laid bare.
In this Gothic Twilight, where shadows conspire,
The heartache of ages, a symphony in the choir.
The sepulchral beauty of the night unfolds,
In corridors of despair, where grim tales are told.
No respite from melancholy, no escape,
As the past entwines with fate's remorseless tape.
So, I recline here, in this realm of the morose,
Where echoes of the past in haunting prose.
In the dark Victorian era, where shadows reign,
A macabre sonnet etched with sorrow's indelible stain.
-Edward