I lay in dark and dreaming sleep
While countless wars and ages passed
While lovers lost and children died
The cycle ran until, aghast 
I opened my eyes, so I should see 
And learn from this unending past
That life is short, though days are long
And that we were never meant to last.
I woke to noise and screaming life
But death was ever found to be
Within the dissonance of voice
Born in children, grown in me
I ran until I fell alone
But decease, like a fey banshee
Moved silently in my shadowed steps
With no intent to set me free
I dozed through my own middle life
I couldn't care to breathe or die
To see my friends or family
Would just admit that I'm alive
I felt like life would canter on
Meaningless, though I'd strive
To fight the caress of lover-death
To hope my wonder would revive
I slept tonight a wondrous sleep
Of moon and star and sunlit eyes
From my bed, I heard her creep
And then I found to my surprise
An angel of unending rest
With promises to mesmerize 
I gave her my own soul to reap
No more left to agonize 
Author's Notes/Comments: 

I liked the first two lines enough to compose another poem

View seraphim's Full Portfolio

"Her Glacier"

“Her Glacier” 


Laying down on the shattered glass

I breathe in the shards

Letting the seeping blood drip




The ripples resonate and echo,

On the disheartened, crying ice

Eyes… dropping… crystals

Covered my saddened heart

Who, I scream a silent, dry scream,

as if I am in space, underwater


To my weeping eyes, “I am sorry for the wasted tears.”

I whisper to the silence, with my vivid vision

The vivid vision blurred by the saltwater tears

Can only see the back of the person I loved

FADE…into the mist of tears


The ice that weeps with me, from my ripped feet,

Shatters as I am taken to the abyss…

The very abyss of my own heart


I, slowly taken down, down…as I struggle against,

Against the deathly, cold water

As the rose thorns grasp my feet…they take me

To pitch-dark black,


To the prison I made myself


Here at the ocean floor,

The place that is made out of my own tears

I wait…where the ashes remain

As I hope the pressure of the seven seas

Of my own heart, turns me into diamonds


The other part of me, who lives much above me

Where the snow punches your ragged skin,

In the heart of the land of fire and ice,

Awaits, in the concave of a glacier…


Aimlessly around the blue glass tsunami,

Breathing in the untainted, crisp cool air

Eyes floating aimlessly

Eyes twinkling endlessly


This slow walking giant, taking centuries for each step

Covers the land with its azure ice like a blanket

Treading on the works of any weathering

Glitters with streaks of endless blue…



O’ the beauty of the blue streaks!

Each a different shade,

Describes the indescribable

His exquisite beauty,


Walls as waves and ripples

Of water that has been frozen in time

Forms those very streaks!

Sapphire, Tiffany, Sky, Zaffre, Royal, Navy, Azure and Midnight blue

In bliss…all dancing merrily in this very cave

…an ultimate Eternal Dance


She, white light, origin of the viva Earth

Smiles through His crystal

Giving colour and light to His life

Givin’ His form…the Blue Crystal Tsunami.


Romance, like lovers, waltzing

even if one of them…will not make it ‘till the end

even if one of them…is slowly killing the other

She, who gives beauty to the giant

I, who lives way below them,

cannot compete…


A warm-blooded creature of the land…

It, who decides to wander inside…

runs Its hands on the mosaic of blue

To It, the ice seems to glide

As the twinkling light of the crystal cave winks…

Picturing the two together…


Below the glacier " inside the very cave- lays a beach


O’ the beach of his tears…when he weeps with me

Slowly melting away


Either way,

His blue is much apart from mine,

Sleeplessly, I lay down on the shattered glass

Endlessly, breathing in the stabbing shards

As I accept my fate…way below Him


Him.” “Blue Glass Tsunami” = Vatnajökull glacier cave, Iceland

The Land of Fire and Ice” = Iceland. Iceland is known to have volcanoes next to glaciers.

White light, Origin of the viva Earth” “She” = Sun

Beach of his tears” = A ‘beach’ located in the cave itself. The sand is made out of ‘crystal’.

A warm-blooded creature of the land” = A person. Human

Pictures them together” = Takes a picture of the cave with a camera

Even if one of them…is slowly killing the other” = The sun is melting the ice

I” = A landform that sunk to the bottom of the sea, just below the cave. (i.e. ‘the third wheel’)











         “…and here I wait. For her glacier. Who I knew will never come”

Author's Notes/Comments: 

"Normally I'm all about the sensory imagery and using a wide vocabulary, and I know that poetry tends to be much more elaborate than prose, but I feel like the emotions and symbolism you are trying to convey are being lost behind all the extra words you're squeezing in. A lot of the words you've chosen come across as either redundant or misplaced, and that gets a little distracting for your reader(s). As you keep working on this piece, consider whether some of your word choices could be pared back, simplified, or eliminated all together. That will help emphasize the meanings you are trying to express.
Also take some time to consider the purpose of your punctuation. I know that ellipses seem like a nice, dramatic way to emphasize specific phrases and images, but overusing them in this way makes the reader feel like they're constantly trying to catch their breath. Which, hey, could be the very point! Just a thought I had." - C.J. Holmes

First Book. (me and my Fox wrote that)

The light coming trough the window

showed all the dust that exploded from

the opening of that one book…



This cold light

lighting up

the warm dusty room.

Books and books and nothing but books.

Mice’s houses.

Rat’s castles.

Home of the fattest woodworms.


I cough with every step,

cause every step

is a step creating

clouds of dust.

Dust created from books.





As I walk thought the kingdom of dead knowledge

towards the end of the world,

I’m looking for one book.

Even if in pieces.

Even a tiny part of it.

i need it.


A page, or a line.

A word would do.


My room is my desert,

my prison and my kingdom.

So I build my paper castles

and I burn my books to feel warm.

I drink the sunlight

and I look for the word, hopelessly,

like it would save my soul,

like it would grant my wishes.


I don’t know how old is that wine.

I found it behind these books over there.

It tastes like shit,

but that’s allright.

I’m eating the leather covers some book have,

else i’m dying.

I lick my own sweat,

the rats are no more.

All their houses and castles and bedrooms are ruined.

You see, i’m still looking for that piece from that book.

Even the moths are gone.

Not that tasty,

but that’s alright.

Oh well, here we go again…


I’m a starving man,

a godless messiah,

soon I’ll feed myself

pieces of my flesh,

tiny organs no one needs.

It hurts a little now,

but that doesn’t matter.

I can devour anything,

I just need to keep my fingers,

so I can run them over my book,

when I find it,

I will find it,

gently caress the pages,

one by one, run my hands

over the hard covers, the soft insides.


When I find my book

it will all be worth it.


New rat in town.

The rat is no more.

Gave me strenght for one last search.

It seems i looked everywhere:

in all the secret rooms,

under the stairs,

behind the bookcase,

under that little door behind the sofa…or what’s left of it anyway.

The book is nowhere to be seen

so now i’m on the floor.

Breathing is almost impossible

cause of the dust i breathed through these months.

Seems like my last scar has opened up…

The ceiling is beautiful…

Andels fighting demons.

Demons loving angels.

And God is reading a book…





There’s dust dripping from me.

Dust and words.

And light.

I’ll ask you in a bit… Father!




So what I’m a character?

So what my steps are counted?

I had the right to try and change that!

See you in the next book, God!

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Please comment and tell me what you think. I would be happy to hear from you.

View deffangell's Full Portfolio

হযরত শাহ্‌ জালাল (রা.): একটি মহাকাব্য- My Bangla Epic

So content I am today,

This is the very day,

When my Bangla epic got published,

A feat of which I myself am astonished!


It was certainly,

The mercy of the Almighty,

And I could hardly anything ask,

After this Herculean task.


Indebted I am to some persons a lot,

For the utmost love, for the amazing support.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

- My Bangla epic 'হযরত শাহ্‌ জালাল (রা.) : একটি মহাকাব্য' has been published at Ekushe Book Fair 2015, Dhaka. I have dedicated the book as a personal homage to the great saint Hazrat Shah Jalal (R.A) . The book is available at Choitonno stall. It contains 2,550 rhyming lines.

View kingofwords's Full Portfolio

Traveling Levesque & the Compulsion

A phantom will bores into
the Vulmandr - spread thin and broad -
and speaks with a swollen tongue.
Words, so barely discernible,
withhold assault and comfort
with pristine images of home.

Fed by desertion - made cruel;
the Scar reeks of fierce Compulsion.

Over weary legs and feet,
under placid-yet-shifting sky;
Levesque continues seeking.
Whilst his brothers in warfare wage
in turbulent, scuttled droves,
he attunes himself in tandem
with this livid pulse and swell
that demands his full attention.
Implicit in him, dormant:
a small gateway through which a claw,
malformed and bent at the wrist,
gestures at his second vision.
He then wonders to himself:
What of my brothers and sisters?
Do they not feel their depths plunged
by this agent of turmoil?

Unbeknownst to young Levesque,
many Vulmandr had fled.

Absent in times of great need,
some remain and delight in their
fierce, yet trite retribution.
Others, engulfed by blind panic,
tore the very Earth to shreds
in their frenzy for an escape.
Rogue and rampant, yet so lost;
the Vulmandr were like fire;
constantly hungry and scared -
consuming in a pitch to live.
In their zigzagging pattern
of burnt, desiccated terrain,
they had spelled out some strange word
in some scribe none had claimed to know.

This great mark shone like a light
on an already-darkened land.
None too great a distance off,
Levesque, alarmed, would find new zeal.

There was yet time to rally.

View sivus's Full Portfolio

The Tamping of the Vulmandr

Yield to they, the Vulmandr:
the fiery rain upon worlds.

Nestled be these war machines,
born as keen blades made marrow and
flesh, in their Maddening Scar.
Fed by wide-scattered surpluses,
their momentum built on strife;
the wagging lips on elected
oracles and emperors
made slick by the spoils of war.

These, the tortured Vulmandr:
men, or non-men, with might threaded
into every sinew
that binds each finger to their hearts,
remain a subject of awe
to we few that had held witness
to their duplicitous raze:
cast down from sky, burnt free of air;
they envelope, immolate
and suffocate those in their wake:
poor laymen roiled by faith,
yet sadly doomed from the start.

But from infancy they've stood;
from discovery they've ravaged
and been a decisive force
in all matters, civil or not,
until this: an alliance
formed by those left firm underfoot
and floundering under siege.
A coiled fist of allegiance,
made taut and unfeeling by
generations of oppression
and tributes taken in greed,
is driven through the country's throat.

The gibbering heads of state,
teeth chattered and drool run afoul
of the mouth, plead and grovel
at archaic shrines made holy
once more by necessity.
But when their white icons collapse,
so, too, do they leap and fall
behind marching lines and units,
placed as an infernal shield.
The mighty Vulmandr hold true
and exhale broadening sheets
of devastation; all in vain.

Once thought of as eternal -
their empire, a beacon placed
by time immemorial
among stars atop their bright peaks -
felled swift by those they once saw
as detritus bred for conquest.
In their burning capital,
the poorest Vulmandr lay slain
while their survivors tarry,
wounded deep and awash in blood,
as those held aloft by pact
quickly devolve into debate.

What of they, the dreaded, dear,
furious Vulmandr, now lost
and without kingdom to cull?
To which powers will they be dealt?
To what ends will they be launched?
What of populations who kneel
to this influence they've known?
What semblance will they have of home?

Weep for they, the Vulmandr:
downtrodden tools, now changing hands.
A family of fragments,
scattered, and forced to war with kin;

the hell they produce: a cry.

View sivus's Full Portfolio