Tag Archives: emotional poetry

The Last Song

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When the last song is sung, nothing is denied—not love, not guilt, not longing.

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Come let us sit by this brightly burning fire;

let us forget all and everything, the good and the dire

Let the high flames defrost our frozen souls,

all the cold voids within and all the black holes

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Come let us search for and grab our broken violins;

let us sing songs, and remember and repent our sins

Let the warmth of our company mend our broken hearts,

all the joys and regrets - together and in parts

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Come let us lament, the fading memory of old love;

let us caress our nostalgia - the delicate, grey dove

Let the stories we tell mark our long and sad past,

let them cherish our tears, which dried up so fast

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Come let us remember innocence, which was lost forever;

let us applaud corruption, the seduction was so very clever

Let us rethink all our deeds, so lofty and so dark,

let us not pass a harsh judgment, with a red mark

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Come let us sit by this brightly burning fire;

let us blow it anew, the flames loftier and higher

Let us say farewell to everything, ambition, and desire;

warmly welcoming the end, the savior, and the pyre

The Anatomy of Longing

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What if longing wasn’t a feeling—but a creature, a curse, and a companion?

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Longing is an ache - a deep pulsating ache,

relief is an effort, which the ache cruelly cripples

Throwing a single stone and troubling a silent lake,

creating countless circles - outspreading ripples

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Longing walks a road - a long and lonely road,

sighing with each indulgence, so delicious is the sin

Tired and exhausted, longing bears its heavy load,

pleasure is the gain, a new loss with every new win

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Longing is the steel - the cold and heavy steel,

it is shackled to my feet, my bloody, blistered feet

Birthing countless agonies, the wounds that never heal,

I am addicted to its taste; the poison is so sweet

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Longing is a fragrance - an old, faded fragrance,

it’s embedded in my soul, my oh so tired soul

It rides the autumn wind, a bold and cruel flagrance,

engraved are the words, regrets on a scroll

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Longing is a swan - a floating black swan,

it sings a lullaby, a soft and sad lullaby

It is here for a minute, and then it is gone,

haunted is the tone, its verses all wry

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Longing is the darkness - a fearsome looming darkness,

it heralds the final doom, the black and grey doom

It really is a curse, so vivid in its starkness,

fear fills the sky, and hope cannot bloom

The Custodian of Unfulfilled Dreams

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broken_dreams_by_spacewizzard666_dd2e8pd-fullview

A kingdom where broken dreams go to die—and a king who refuses to abandon them.

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Far away from all this filth and all this stinking mold,

there is a secret and silent realm of unfulfilled dreams

The realm is colorless, neither silver nor purple nor gold,

no laughter or singing, just a chaos of cries and screams

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Each dream, once it’s shattered, and in pain it cries,

it enters the realm, hearing some command unspoken

The horn of time does not blow; it is silent and so wise,

as the dreams lay trampled, crying and utterly broken

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There he sits at the gate, the old and tattered King,

the sad custodian of dreams, he protects and lovingly guards

He has neither a throne, nor a seal, nor a royal ring,

he wears only a crown of thorns and sharp glass shards

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The dreams are his children, a few are even his very own,

he cradles their delicate heads and lovingly treats their sores

Some dreams have broken wings, and some have never flown,

yet he loves them all, whether they are his own, mine, or yours

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The King has tears in his eyes; he cries over the wounded dreams,

he knows they are going to finally die, his efforts are all in vain

The dreams whimper as life bleeds out, in rivulets and in streams,

the King knows they are the last drops of a rare desert rain

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Each dream, when it breathes its very last and silently dies,

he gently kisses its dead eyes, singing the last lullaby

The King is sad, oh, he is so very sad, but still he desperately tries,

caring for dreams, without asking ‘to what end’ or even a ‘why’

Depression and Me – Till Death do us Part

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A marriage vow written in shadows: depression doesn’t ever leave, it keeps on waiting in silence.

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All the faceless monsters lurking under your bed,

and grey smoky ghosts, hiding quietly in the shed

They are still alive, and though very much well fed,

their appetites grow stronger, smelling your dread

Oh, you were so mistaken, and you were so wrong,

they are still here, and they are still very strong

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You thought they had gone and had finally left,

leaving you for once alone, happy, and not bereft

Letting you grow freely to move either East or West,

was something so obvious, but you were so obsessed

Oh you were damn crazy, and stupid to think so,

it is not over yet, the dark misery and the grey woe

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Yes, they look different and may have new faces,

their new but scalding words leave new traces

Their horror remains a fact, and it has a rational basis;

you are an idiot; you were never in their good graces

Oh, you are confused and bewildered by this shit?

No worries, you may run, but you will again be hit

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Yes, you will forever run and hide from them in vain,

but you will meet them always, again and again

There might be a brief respite, and maybe a little gain,

but then will come suffering, and definitely more pain

Oh, you will scream, and torture yourself to death;

you will suffer and burn till your very last breath

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But listen, my friend, and listen to me with care;

they are of your own making, so it’s only fair

They might frighten you, and they might even scare,

but sensibility and you? It has always been very rare

Oh, you may protest, and you may angrily differ;

you are their creator, though this may sound bitter

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The ghosts and monsters will forever stay with you;

the shadows, the dark, and the legion of demons, too

You will keep on feeding and rearing them, it’s true;

but they will keep on torturing and tormenting you

Oh, you may try, or you may find your hands tightly tied,

but good fortune is a horse, you will never ever ride

When Love is the Last Illusion (Previously, the White Dove of Hope)

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Condemned by fate, and mocked by hope, until one dangerous word appears – love.

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Oh, you sad children of a time so evil and dark,

you are all the product of undesirable circumstances.

Your love always went stale before it could spark,

though you availed all the emerging chances

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You were the anomaly in the grand scheme;

you should have been smothered when born

Sadly, the plan remained only a dream;

though conceived by the Devil with open scorn

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You knew while you grew, you had no roots;

you were the useless moss clinging to a boulder

You had no character, no faith, and no attributes,

yet the burdens of life, you carried on your shoulder

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But you all survived, and yet you go on living;

for what purpose, may I ask in all sincerity

When both fate and life are so unforgiving,

your sustained survival becomes a vulgarity

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Desist! I suggest, or surrender, I would advise;

nothing will help you persist or even grow

Throw the cards down; please be a little wise,

just cease all efforts and go with the flow

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What did you just say? Do I hear the word ‘love’?

Yes, perhaps, love is the only solace you may ever find

It is your golden butterfly, a beautiful white dove,

in a world filled with hatred, this word sounds so kind

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Go on then, caress its warmth while you can,

till the white dove forsakes and abandons you

You will be all done with life; there is no other plan,

nothing else over the horizon for you to view