Today, they say, is the day when our King receives his crown. Churchyard bells and criers' yells are heard throughout the town.
By Ian Readabout a year ago in Poets
Poe briefly attended the University of Virginia in 1826, where his promising academic career was cut short due to financial difficulties and mounting gambling debts. After a tumultuous stint in the military and an unsuccessful attempt at a West Point education, Poe turned his focus entirely to writing—a pursuit that would define his life, albeit fraught with struggles for stability and recognition.
By Mr Aliabout a year ago in Poets
Grieving through the breathing crevices of my mourning soul, I propelled through piercing glances of the ones who chose to score their goal.
By Hridya Sharmaabout a year ago in Poets
The dust settles, a shaky ceasefire in the kitchen light, the air gritty with unspoken regrets, yesterday’s words like shrapnel
By souhilaabout a year ago in Poets
Chapter 9: The Final Trial The journey neared its destined close, Yet trials remained where shadows rose. A demon king, fierce and vast, Prepared to halt their group at last.
By COUabout a year ago in Poets
Chapter 7: The Journey Begins With staff in hand and heart unsure, Wukong joined the monk, his fate obscure. Through forests dark and rivers wide, He walked as Tang Sanzang’s guide.
Chapter 5: Buddha's Trap Across the skies, his name was sung, Of Wukong’s might and the havoc he’d brung. He laughed at Heaven’s futile plea, “I am the king of eternity!”
Chapter 3: King of Havoc Upon return to his mountain throne, Wukong declared, “This world I own! No gods or kings shall hold me low; To Heaven itself, my power will show.”
Chapter 1: Birth of the Stone Monkey Upon Flower Fruit Mountain, where clouds do cling, A magic stone bore the Monkey King. Carved by the heavens, with earth’s embrace, Born of wind and water, a fateful place.
If you keep coming around here singing your part, sitting in my bed, softly picking that guitar, I'm going to end up singing with you.
By Sara Wynnabout a year ago in Poets
Today I feel obliged To put pen to paper To poetically publish To ornately orate To lavishly lament
By Matthew J. Frommabout a year ago in Poets
Upon a hill where soft winds play, And sunlight warms the break of day, A figure sits in quiet grace, In nature’s arms, their sacred space.
