Long Unstitched Poems
Long Unstitched Poems. Below are the most popular long Unstitched by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Unstitched poems by poem length and keyword.
I have gone where stars dissolve in violet flame,
Beyond the breathless hush of time and name,
Where silence swells like tides beneath the skin,
And nothing waits to let the light begin.
The galaxies bent low to let me pass—
Each one a frozen bloom of shattered glass.
I listened for a voice, a breath, a bell,
But all was still, and stillness bore its spell.
No sorrow found me there, nor joy nor fear,
Just echoes of the life I left down here.
The sky was stitched with threads of silver pain—
Too beautiful, too distant to remain.
I floated past the clocks that never chimed,
Beyond the ribs of space, unstitched by time,
To learn that heaven is a mirror cracked,
And beauty, once beheld, will not come back.
Then down again, through corridors of light,
I felt the tug of breath, the pull of night.
But nothing called me back—not voice, not name—
Just morning on the sill, and window-frame.
Now I exist in silence wrapped in steel,
No tree, no wind, no touch of rain-sweet feel—
Only the whisper of machines that sing,
And lights that buzz but never mean a thing.
The stars still bloom behind my shadowed eyes,
But in this cage, my singing spirit dies.
I left my body here one sleepless night,
And part of me still wanders out of sight.
They said they saw it tethered once..
A cloud upon a leash.
A swelling breath of silver threat..
Just straining for release.
It trembled like a caged-out roar..
A pulse beneath the sky.
The kind of force that hums before..
The world forgets it’s dry.
But storms don’t kneel to human hands..
They don’t obey or wait.
You cannot chain a spinning wrath..
Or bargain down its fate.
For deep within that coiling mass..
A hunger twists and grows.
A spiral born of thunderous clash..
Where only chaos knows.
The sky collapsed in charcoal sheets..
The wind began to scream.
A tornado gave a savage howl..
Light pierced the vast unseen.
It tore through fields like sharpened teeth..
Ripped roots from sacred ground.
A beast unbound, it hunts beneath..
No mercy to be found.
Roofs were lifted like they weighed..
No more than a feather flies.
Homes unstitched and flung away..
To dance in broken skies.
The roads were scars, the trees were bones..
The earth itself laid bare.
And every scream was swallowed whole..
By fury in the air.
It spun with wild, unholy grace..
A god that would not yield.
A ruthless hand with no soft place..
No conscience left concealed.
A perfect storm of heat and cold..
Of pressure torn apart.
Where nature’s breath turns fierce and bold..
And rips the human heart.
They called it "weather" nothing more..
A system passing through.
But stood too close, and you’d have sworn..
It stared right back at you..
Alive with rage, with ancient might.
A force we can’t appease..
No leash can hold that violent flight..
No hand can calm the breeze.
So let them speak of skies as tame..
Of forecasts neatly drawn.
But storms don’t answer to a name..
Just pure in fury's form.
For when the clouds begin to twist..
And silence starts to cease.
You’ll learn the truth none can resist..
No cloud was on a leash.
They called her Alice,
but perhaps her true name was Smoke,
rising slow and silent
from letters never sent,
from altars crumbled beneath
the cold gaze of forgotten saints,
from lips that kissed her only to still her breath.
She did not fall.
She transcended.
There is a sacred difference,
between shattering
and choosing the void.
She stepped beyond the back of her own reflection,
where silver fractures whispered secrets
older than time’s first prayer,
and her eyes held the quiet sorrow
of gods who have forgotten mercy.
The wormhole was no place,
but an unspoken hymn,
a rift in the fabric of becoming,
curved like a question
too holy for a mother’s voice,
too fragile for an angel’s touch.
No rabbits greeted her,
only warnings draped in silence,
clocks weeping timeless tears,
knowing the pain of counting
souls that vanish between moments.
In that other world,
she wore her scars like relics,
held her shadow like a prayer,
whispering softly,
“I forgive the absence
of your surrender.”
She met herself,
not in cold mirrors,
but in the trembling hush of ancient trees,
in the ache beneath forgotten songs,
in the boy she once was,
before the world demanded
she choose
between breath and belonging.
She bowed not to queens,
but unstitched their crowns,
thread by sacred thread,
until all that remained
was dust,
and the infinite silence of grace.
And when she reached the edge,
there was no light,
no voice,
no door.
Only her own heartbeat:
steady, eternal
like the first drop of rain
falling
on a city
that forgot her name,
but still remembers her soul.
The man in front of me is a broken one,
and my fingers are drowning in dripping glue,
in cement,
in something meant to hold things
To hold him
To hold myself and others together.
Yet he binds himself
with puppet strings, scotch tape,
and the wet breath of drugs.
Batting at my outstretched
Hands
Dodging the warmth of a true touch,
He flinches.
He bleeds- visibly
and he screams from a
starlight-lost, daydream-blinded face
that I am wrong.
He shoves daggers into my seams,
prying at my wounds.
Burning red and pulsing in purple bruise
Image of a warrior
turned blue.
while leaking he bursts open.
Pain seeping into my sobbing mouth
From his unstitched scars
So easy to tear.
He rips with his own hands
At the both of us
When he does not cover his ears and turn his back
To cradle in a seething silence
Clutching with razor blade hands
the child,
The pained,
Chained, caged pet he swallows with every breath as if I cannot
See the lump in his throat
Or feel the kicking in his chest.
But I am a mountain,
capped in the blood of a hundred storms,
and I will not cave.
when the soul-stars
dream
and die,
their dusk-dust
drifts
like dew-light
into my skin~
a wisp-woven
whisper-seam
the cosmos
stitched
in secret
O star-scar,
soft
as a silver
spell,
you shimmer
in the hush
between
heartbeats~
a moon-mended
memory
of the moment
the universe
unraveled
and then
re-threaded
itself
through me
I feel you
flicker~
a faint
feather-flare
of fire
rising
through
the rift
not pain,
but aurora~
a pale
pulse
of returning
radiance
when the cosmos
unstitched
its silver
script
across my back,
I thought
the void
would swallow
every vowel
of me
but the universe
is a patient
phoenix-seamstress~
she gathers
fallen starlight,
glimmer-grain
by glimmer-grain,
and lays it
gently
in the seam
where I once
broke
now twilight
trails
its caramel-calm
along my spine,
and the scar
glows
like a soft
star-stitch
sigal~
a place
where breaking
became
breath
O mythic mark,
moon-kissed,
meteor-bright,
you are the lull
between galaxies,
the lantern-lit
lullaby
the sky
forgot
to sing
and when
the soul-stars
dream again,
their dusk-dust
shimmers
through the seam~
a quiet
quiver
of cosmic
remembering
I rise
in that
whisper-white
wonder,
a unicorn-ethereal
ember,
phoenix-fine,
learning
once more
to live
in the light
that lingers
after
dying
I Am That I Am
The architecture of the flesh
may fail,
The skin unstitched, a frayed
and fragile veil,
Where silver staples close the
crimson seam,
And hold the borders of a
fractured dream.
We sit within the sterile, quiet
room,
Where shadows stretch and
heavy doubts loom,
Measuring life in sips of clear-lit
glass,
Waiting for the wilderness to
pass.
Yet in this crucible of ache and
bone,
A sovereign sanctuary is made
known.
I am the anchor in the shifting
deep,
The vigil kept while weary
angels sleep.
I am the breath that steadies
through the dark,
The sudden, iridescent, blinding
spark,
That turns a ruin to a holy space,
And paints a window on a
broken face.
No longer tethered to the grief
we hold,
Nor to the phantom weight of
old despair,
I am the vastness where the
storm dissolves,
The axis where the wheeling
world revolves.
Unmade by time, untouched by
mortal scar,
I am the light, the lantern, and
the star-
The timeless current flowing
deep within,
Where endings fade, and all true
things begin.
High in the Eyrie, stone cold and stark,
Where stars peer in and walls leave a mark,
The sky is a floor and the wind is a blade,
And the edge is a whisper where brave men fade.
The stone is slanted, the door left wide,
So night may beckon and pride may slide.
Here justice hangs by a falcon’s cry,
In a cell where the floor meets the open sky.
But gaze too long at the void below,
Where clouds swirl soft and shadows grow,
And Nietzsche’s warning starts to sear—
The abyss above begins to leer.
It sees you crumble, stripped and bare,
A soul unstitched by frost and air.
What stares from down may dwell within,
And pull you out with quiet sin.
So watch your thoughts and hold your breath—
For the sky may sentence more than death.
In silence vast and justice thin,
The fall begins not out—but in.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oLCHXfkGOIw
Perhaps if we were to take apart grief as we unravel life
one single moment unstitched pulled out of time
we'd begin to see that death is only a silent passage
and we need not bear the loss alone,
The memories of our coverlet years of love
will drive us home *
Perchance, mayhap, we can take it by the hand like a seer,
"we were born to exist and disappear" said the Mysticeer
and I for one believe that death is the encoding of life;
The silver threads of Mercy are weaved inside God's blanket
big enough to warm each widow, grieving parent, and child
As long as we love well, while we are still here,
death cannot take away our loved ones, nor their time on earth.
In Love And Light, Your Mystic Rose
The Ferris wheel, a spoked and sputtering crown,
Pinned back the velvet dark. We paid our fee
In crumpled bills, bought passage to the town
Where gravity forgot to work its shift for me.
Neon stuttered sermons: "Try Your Luck!"
"See Freaks! Win Love!" The calliope’s thick breath,
A sticky-sweet confection, made us drunk
On promises spun sugar-brittle, sweet as death.
We traded common sense for ticket stubs,
Gulped down the chaos. Bumper cars collided
With jarring joy, released electric grubs
Of laughter down our spines, fear undecided
If it should stay or flee. The Tilt-A-Whirl
Unstitched the solid world, flung stars askew
In streaks of cheap chrome, made the pavement curl
Beneath our feet. I held tight onto you,
A fixed point in the whirling, painted blur.
The rifle range barked sharp, tin cans leapt high.
A sad-eyed bear, impossibly demur,
Watched from his perch where hopeful bullets die.
We shared spun sugar, ghosting on the air,
A sweetness gone before it reached the tongue,
Like fortunes told by Madame Zara’s stare
In smoky glass where futures, cheap, were hung.
The haunted house exhaled its chilly moan.
We walked through shrieks (machine-made, mostly sound),
Past rubber bats and bones of plastic thrown
To frighten children. On the trembling ground,
The roller coaster’s skeleton outlined
A shriek against the stars, a rattled breath
Of riders flung through space, ecstatically blind.
We felt its tremor, smelled its oil and death.
Then, sudden quiet by the carousel,
Its painted horses frozen mid-career,
Up, down, around, beneath a tarnished spell.
The music box wound down, the notes unclear,
Like childhood memories half-drowned in time.
The lights began to shutter, one by one.
The midway sighed. The air grew thick with grime
And spent excitement. All the magic, done.
We walked back through the gates, the real world vast
And strangely silent after all that din.
Holding the cheap prize that was meant to last,
A plastic star still glowing deep within
Its fragile shell – a captured, fading spark,
A testament to how we briefly flew
Above the ordinary, through the dark,
On borrowed light, just me and just... and you.
The carnival's clockwork heart beat slow, then ceased,
Leaving just echoes, ticket stubs, and peace.
One first flight, Columbia’s name.
Seven souls aboard, bound for fame.
Six days, then ten, experiments thrive,
Eighty hearts of science, dreams alive.
Sixteen days, the Earth they skim,
Reentry calls—light fades dim.
Tick-tick, hiss-hiss, crack-crack—a sound,
A breach unseen, the heat unwound.
1.67 pounds, a foam unseen,
Pierced the wing, unstitched the dream.
40 miles high, the flames collide,
Mach eighteen, as heat did stride.
Mach fifteen—a fiery scream,
The air ignites, the fragile seams.
Seven names, carved deep in space,
Their sacrifice, a lasting grace.
At 9:00 a.m., a nation cried,
29 months, the fleet must bide.
Tick-tick, sigh-sigh, hush-hush—we wait.
Columbia’s legacy will navigate.
Eighty dreams and the minds they fed,
We honor the fallen, their voices not dead.