vintage

Vintage poetry stands the test of time; collections and anthologies of classic poems and enduring verses from eras past.

The Dullahan's Bargain
The Dullahan's Bargain __________________________________ The blackthorn bent beneath the moon's cold eye, When came the rider none dare meet—
By The Lost Books - "Libri Perditi"8 months ago in Poets
The Selkie and the Sailmaker
The Selkie and the Sailmaker ______________________________ The sailmaker walked the midnight shore, Where waves whispered secrets to the sand,
By The Lost Books - "Libri Perditi"8 months ago in Poets
The Vampire’s Dawn
The Vampire’s Dawn _________________________ Beneath the shroud of endless night, Where stars are cold and pale, There walked a soul of darkened blight,
By The Lost Books - "Libri Perditi"8 months ago in Poets
Magick
I’m a superposition magician Filled with superstition A mitochondric pandemic of faith fueled chaos Cross faded into fatal futility
By Atomic Historian8 months ago in Poets
The Cycle
From the earth I came And to there I shall return To a life reborn
By Atomic Historian8 months ago in Poets
This
I screamed into the void so deep, but hands around me made it sleep. i’m not a hero. i’m breath between the words unsaid,
By Mapique8 months ago in Poets
Living Death
They pump me full of meds My brain is dead But the thesis of theocracy says the fetus persists Now I am a Petri dish for this life to exist
By Atomic Historian8 months ago in Poets
The Unwritten Legacy
Part VI: The Aftermath of Ash Clara’s decision to burn The Labyrinth of Echoes was not an exorcism—it was a catalyst. For years, she told herself she’d escaped Eleanor Marlow’s curse. Her novel, The Unwritten, became a cult classic, praised for its “feral originality.” Critics called it a manifesto against algorithmic creativity. Clara didn’t correct them.
By Shohel Rana8 months ago in Poets
Resentment from the Grave
It’s kind of amusing to think about things I don’t say out loud because I say everything out loud. But then it had me thinking,
By Natasha Collazo8 months ago in Poets
The Language of Lightning
I. The Spark They said my veins held too much night— a cellar of shadows, a shuttered fright. But I learned to strike a match on my ribs,
By Ramjanul Haque Khandakar8 months ago in Poets
A New York City Mourning
The trains and buses are bleak New Yorkers jokingly complain of tourists in the way of a New York minute But I never thought the city would be this empty consistently
By Cadma8 months ago in Poets
The Heart of Home
Mom, I see the roads you walked alone, The seed you planted, now fully grown. The hands that worked, the nights you prayed,
By V8 months ago in Poets