Mine Home

16_-_1
Credits: Mai

First time trying Poets_Prompt. Pic Credit: +Mai. Rest lines: Teddy.

Mine Home

Cramped between the green epiphany,
A place mine heart calls home,
For not the bed that awaits mine dream,
For those walls breathe bestowed upon our touch.
Tales flickering in thou memories flow,
Away with the water in echoed reality,
For pebbles revered in thee face chimes.
The grasses seen nights of full moon,
Nights began when you touched mine face.
They wonder why lies a chair when two soul live,
For they not know what lives, only found mine body,
When thee sleeps peacefully inside the tomb,
And what’s left in thee found a place,
Mine heart calls it now the Home.
– Teddy ©

My Story in Thee

s1
All Credits: Teddy

Tried something new here. Color scheme is kinda sloppy. I am including the texts of the poem.

 

You art pieces of the crimson sky,

The sunset whence my world never sleeps.

What for love, tis not meant you!

Live on an empty canvas till morrow escapes dearth,

For you behold colors, purely infinite beauty.

Mine life complete without gold ring or silk,

When sleep found your shoulders, and

Hands beheld your fingers even in satire need.

Death a game on cross-board, for I not fear,

Mine soul not regret, life draped with your memories.

Thoughts fly away in windows for it gather only yours,

Where mine eyes peep to tales drowned in thou smile.

Forth mine mortal body speaks humanity in many lies,

Forth what it not speaks a truth, for it’ll find you in immortality.

 

The Dire Truth

What is word not meant for pages,

You’ll say I am silent behind my true face.

What is fear not meant for brave-hearts,

You’ll say I have seen all that comes apart.

 

You’ll come and suffice with hymn my heart doesn’t sing,

Memories you lived, hopes you’ve sowed creeps away

and you’ll say I write because my truce has never

made it your way.

 

What is sleep not meant for dream,

You’ll say illumination inside me are reflection of dormant beam.

What is life not meant for love and lust,

You’ll say I’ve walked roads engraved with dusk and dust.

 

You’ll come and close the gaps, in-between I am trapped,

Faces you’ve drawn, kisses you left creeps away

And you’ll say I write because my prayers has

never seen more than your dismay.

 

Are you blind to the silence of your shadow?

Where I wake up every morning and grow.

You’ll say life has moved on beyond my watch,

I am still counting the days lost by your gift of botch.

 

You’ll say I am never meant to be yours,

And am I only meant for your abhors?

You’ll say I lost every fight I lived in,

Am I suppose to win where I have not been?

You’ll say I only write because I cannot ride the flight,

And when your speech will die, corpses of my dire truth

will show you why I write and a goodbye.

Restful Chronicle

Bow infront of the truth that                                                                                                           winches with the leaves,

The face that lives on the                                                                                                                       night street which grieves.

Our roads cross everyday over                                                                                                                 the ashen of the streetlight,

Only a benevolent smile is how                                                                                                                 we greet on the east-side.

No sober interaction and what it seems                                                                                               the secrets cross the realm every time,

The thoughts that fought once, hugs                                                                                                      now in the silence of our chime.

I wonder why not we talk and                                                                                                                    be the soul of a unison rhythm!

I wonder can I ever sing and                                                                                                                 dance below the Rosewood with’em.

Will I ever cross the dilemma and                                                                                                          see the world through her eyes?

Every night infront of sleeping Daisies, I wonder                                                                                   will I ever be part of her journey to baptize.

Someday the flowers will die and the trees                                                                                       may sleep forever withered by our hopeless canonical,

And someday I will walk past the light and                                                                                     bestow her with my Restful Chronicle.

Thirteen Candles

Blue moonlight, chirps of incessant waves

Deficit of solemn touch to the ground,

In between lay the legacy of thirteen candles.

A memory of thirteen brave souls is what they speak.

Curses of dark symphony, silhouette of vengeance,

Ride the wolves night and day to obliterate their sleep.

Brave prophecy of the yellow flame tames the beast in peace,

And guard the immortal desire to breath and bathe in seventh heaven.

Disgrace of empty silence drips on the feathers of snow-white wax,

Yet they burn dipped in conglomerate of thirsty valiant amber.

The last letter of infinite heartbeat weeps for the fallen spirit,

Embers of flickering flame illuminate the ashes of their resilient struggle.

Screams of distant lust and lure tear apart hues of tomorrow,

Yet these souls sleep and dream in the blessings of the thirteen candles.