First Draft

"The First Frost of Winter"
Beneath the hush of morning’s light, A breath of cold, a sparkling sight. The world, once warm and wrapped in gold, Now wears a gown of silver, bold.
By Azra parveenabout a year ago in Poets
Borrowed Time
"Borrowed Time" The words rang in my head Because for the last few months, All I keep asking myself is... "Where has the time gone?"
By Manisha Dhalaniabout a year ago in Poets
If It Were in My Power…
If It Were in My Power… If it were in my power, I’d build a city, a magical tower. Where the flutter of doves in their gentle flight Would turn life’s song into endless delight. Where jingling breaths, like anklets, sing, And senses soak in the hues of spring. Where the moon would never fade or wane, And moonlight’s fabric would gently sustain The barren souls of a thirsty earth, Clothing their hearts with endless worth.
By Muhammad Waseem about a year ago in Poets
The Desolate Evening
The Desolate Evening A sorrowful evening, a grieving heart, and endless solitude, Everywhere stretches the boundless emptiness of loneliness.
By Muhammad Waseem about a year ago in Poets
What Became Of You ?
What became of you, with your wisdom of life? Why are you silent now? Tell me, what became of you? You parted ways, chasing new destinations, I lost my path after losing you; what became of you?
By Muhammad Waseem about a year ago in Poets
Create a portrait where I smile while I weep
A Portrait of Tears and Smiles Create a portrait where I smile while I weep, Let sorrow be expressed, but not as a spectacle to keep.
By Muhammad Waseem about a year ago in Poets
You’ll never return, I had to say
You’ll never return, I had to say, You went far away, as I searched each day. For centuries, in valleys, I waited for you, You came for a moment, smiled, then I searched anew.
By Muhammad Waseem about a year ago in Poets
How can I tell you of my pain?
How can I tell you of my pain? It’s not a story, not so plain. Not a word I can simply write, Not a tale to recite tonight.
By Muhammad Waseem about a year ago in Poets
The Love
The Love One day, I met a lover on the roadside, And then a long conversation began, side by side. I asked him, "Why is your attire pale green? Why do your desolate eyes hold a watery sheen?"
By Muhammad Waseem about a year ago in Poets
If sculpting is your art, O craftsman, Shape my face, my body, and my soul with your hand.
If sculpting is your art, O craftsman, Shape my face, my body, and my soul with your hand. Turn water into glass for me, if you can, Or cleanse this mirror of its rust and sand.
By Muhammad Waseem about a year ago in Poets
The Abyss Of Everyday Life. Content Warning.
A bunch of animals, pretending to be a family. That's what it all was! And everything is smeared in some sort of animal's shit, everywhere, not even an attempt at hiding it no; the vile, ignoble past nagging wholeheartedly from the back of your mind, and that damn sword, dangling above your head, black on one side and white on the other, rusty all over, written in red on its blade ''this too shall pass''...
By YonathanJabout a year ago in Poets
Lies to the fallen
”fly” Her soft voice hushed. “How can I? My wings are burning; my heart a flame!” I cried out. “Because you have always flown. What would you be without the sky between your fingers and adventure on your tongue?”
By Sylvia Rogersabout a year ago in Poets