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The year 1918 wasn't etched in gold, But etched in scars, a story yet untold. A world at war, a generation bled, And hope, a fragile flame, on life's tightrope tread.
By Moharif Yulianto2 years ago in Poets
The seasons turn, the leaves may fall away, But like a constant moonbeam, my love holds sway. Though miles may stretch and silence fills the air,
My love is round, a circle ever true, No jagged edges, no sharp points to accrue. It spins and flows, a constant, gentle tide,
Doesn't Love Kill You (A Paradox) Doesn't love kill you, slowly, sweetly sting, A poison chalice, joy and sorrow cling? It lifts you high on wings of hope and fire,
Love, Oh Love Love, oh love, a whisper on the breeze, A fragrance sweet on blossoming cherry trees. A melody that lingers in the air,
Clinging to Embers Leaves Only Ashes The fireplace whispers tales of winters past, Embers glowing, remnants of a fire that couldn't last.
Broken Wing The wind once sang a song of endless flight, My feathers, white as snow, a dazzling sight. I soared on thermals, kissed the sun's warm face,
Let curiosity be your compass, true, And chase the whispers of what's yet to view. For knowledge, vast as endless firmaments,
A name, a whisper on my lips, a sigh, A constant echo in a silent sky. Your laughter, music to a yearning ear, But meant for others, never meant for here.
The world may rush with fleeting things, A whirlwind chase, a heart that sings Of fleeting passions, quick and bright, But ours, my love, is a different light.
Not with a crash of thunder, nor a blinding flash of light, But with a gentle ember, our love began to ignite. No whirlwind passion, fierce and all-consuming,
Your love, a creeping vine, so sweet, so strong, Entwined my soul in its seductive song. It bloomed with promises, a vibrant hue,
