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Nathrangking

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A random sonnet I wrote for Drama that ended up being about Hoid.

Spoiler

His hair is white as stainless pages plain,

It flows ‘round glorious visage, fettered not

By earthly pull nor leather thong profane,

And seems to glow, so he be ne’er forgot.

His eyes, more wondrous blue than sky so high,

Or robins’ egg, or ocean deep below

Their depths surpassing any mundane sigh

And as they gaze, their pull seems but to grow.

This wand’rer fair has travelled near and far

To bring to pass his visions dear of old

In times long past when evil did not mar

And good had champions many, brave, and bold.

But soon his journey ends, his task complete,

And finished then, his happy end to meet.

 

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On 4/29/2022 at 8:36 PM, Condensation said:

A random sonnet I wrote for Drama that ended up being about Hoid.

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His hair is white as stainless pages plain,

It flows ‘round glorious visage, fettered not

By earthly pull nor leather thong profane,

And seems to glow, so he be ne’er forgot.

His eyes, more wondrous blue than sky so high,

Or robins’ egg, or ocean deep below

Their depths surpassing any mundane sigh

And as they gaze, their pull seems but to grow.

This wand’rer fair has travelled near and far

To bring to pass his visions dear of old

In times long past when evil did not mar

And good had champions many, brave, and bold.

But soon his journey ends, his task complete,

And finished then, his happy end to meet.

 

Nicely done Connie!! I would say tighten the images a bit more. For example where you write "And seems to glow, so he be ne’er forgot." And seems to burn, so he be ne’er forgot. Something like that might come off sharper. A burning visage as opposed to simply glowing. All in all well written!

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  • 4 weeks later...

Little sad thing I wrote because not feeling super happy.

Spoiler

The Dying, The Dying Of Humanity

Flowers, once purple, once a vibrant magenta, are now stained.

Stained red.

Red with the blood of everyone.

And I can hear the screams.

Of the flowers.

Of the people.

Of the dying, the dying of humanity.

My Grandfather once told me,

“Death doesn’t discriminate between the sinners and the saints. It takes, and it takes, and it takes.”

He was right.

There’s sinners and saints on this field.

There’s flowers and thorns on this field.

They’re all stained red.

Except me.

I’m not stained.

I see the stains, but not on me.

I see the blood, but not on me.

I see the dying, the dying of humanity, but not on me.

I watched.

I listened.

I witnessed the dying.

The dying of humanity.

And did nothing.

 

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7 minutes ago, CalanoCorvus said:

Little sad thing I wrote because not feeling super happy.

  Hide contents

The Dying, The Dying Of Humanity

Flowers, once purple, once a vibrant magenta, are now stained.

Stained red.

Red with the blood of everyone.

And I can hear the screams.

Of the flowers.

Of the people.

Of the dying, the dying of humanity.

My Grandfather once told me,

“Death doesn’t discriminate between the sinners and the saints. It takes, and it takes, and it takes.”

He was right.

There’s sinners and saints on this field.

There’s flowers and thorns on this field.

They’re all stained red.

Except me.

I’m not stained.

I see the stains, but not on me.

I see the blood, but not on me.

I see the dying, the dying of humanity, but not on me.

I watched.

I listened.

I witnessed the dying.

The dying of humanity.

And did nothing.

 

Way to save the thread and hit hard with the poetry. I like the directness of it. The power is emotional, not visual. It demands that the reader feel what the words say that they should feel. It's very effective!

Edited by Nathrangking
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Poem :)

Spoiler

It Is Over

Phantoms dancing in the ballroom.

Crisp pages turning and turning and turning.

Loved ones smile with hollow eyes.

Empty love fills the ballroom.

Faceless phantoms effortlessly glide through the steps.

The Castle.

The Library.

The Ballroom.

Phantoms.

Memories of people, twirling in the twilight.

Melancholy notes echo through a void.

My mind plays the song.

Over.

And Over.

And Over.

And then it’s Over.

The phantoms fade.

The crisp pages fold.

The smiles turn down.

The light dwindles.

Time passes.

The phantoms do not return.

The crisp pages are not opened.

The smiles never turn up.

The light never builds.

The void is silent.

My mind is silent.

It Is Over.

 

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15 hours ago, DramaQueen said:

That gives me a very similar melancholy vibe as the song Once Upon a December from Anastasia, I like it!

i noticed that when writing it and listening to the waltz bit of the song i based it on. It sounds like Once Upon A December lmao

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17 hours ago, CalanoCorvus said:

Poem :)

  Hide contents

It Is Over

Phantoms dancing in the ballroom.

Crisp pages turning and turning and turning.

Loved ones smile with hollow eyes.

Empty love fills the ballroom.

Faceless phantoms effortlessly glide through the steps.

The Castle.

The Library.

The Ballroom.

Phantoms.

Memories of people, twirling in the twilight.

Melancholy notes echo through a void.

My mind plays the song.

Over.

And Over.

And Over.

And then it’s Over.

The phantoms fade.

The crisp pages fold.

The smiles turn down.

The light dwindles.

Time passes.

The phantoms do not return.

The crisp pages are not opened.

The smiles never turn up.

The light never builds.

The void is silent.

My mind is silent.

It Is Over.

 

@DramaQueen well now I can't unthink that. The somber repetition does achieve its goal of inducing pangs of loss. The imagery is scarce, but ultimately the emotion carries the poem. Well done!!

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