Quotes about relics, page 9
Emptiness Was Screaming
When your lies pretend to be truths,
Your house becomes full of cadavers.
The reticent progeny,
you abandoned at birth, strikes.
My hands bleed, lifting the bones.
Actuality overwhelms the landscape
like molten lava.
Shadows in the sun, grow larger when,
we are dissecting the truth.
A daunting work to dig out the relics.
We have not modified our speech.
Ill tempered time
makes me insane.
I was not prepared for this calamity
losing my way in a jungle of untruths.
Mighty darkness
pierces the perennial thoughts
in the brain edifice,
[...] Read more
poem by Satish Verma
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Inscription 08 - For The Cenotaph At Ermenonville
STRANGER! the MAN OF NATURE lies not here:
Enshrin'd far distant by his rival's side
His relics rest, there by the giddy throng
With blind idolatry alike revered!
Wiselier directed have thy pilgrim feet
Explor'd the scenes of Ermenonville. ROUSSEAU
Loved these calm haunts of Solitude and Peace;
Here he has heard the murmurs of the stream,
And the soft rustling of the poplar grove,
When o'er their bending boughs the passing wind
Swept a grey shade. Here if thy breast be full,
If in thine eye the tear devout should gush,
His SPIRIT shall behold thee, to thine home
From hence returning, purified of heart.
poem by Robert Southey
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Electrified Thoughts Nature Of Model Whole
what are these piecemeal parts of me
parts separate function relics cease to exist
the sum is not greater than the whole...
define it is me define a part of my personality
my personality springs direct not from parts
but electrified thoughts nature of model whole
what shapes creates chosen spark personality stimulus
environment family culture ethnic outlook expressions
lives we choose to live contain infinite finite choices
it is not bliss happiness but pain which fast track teaches
unhappiness teaches we can turn pain learning into beauty
we attitude write write write opportunities into our lives
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Sphinx-Money
Where Pyramids and temple-wrecks are piled
Confusedly on camel-coloured sands,
And the mute Arab motionlessly stands,
Like some swart god who never wept or smiled,--
I picked up mummy relics of the wild
(And sea-shells once with clutching baby hands),
And felt a wafture from old Motherlands,
And all the morning wonder of a Child
To find Sphinx-money. So the Beduin calls
Small fossils of the waste. Nay, poet's gold;
'Twill give thee entrance to those rites of old,
When hundred-gated Thebes, with storied walls,
Gleamed o'er her Plain, and vast processions rolled
To Amon-Ra through Karnak's pillared halls.
poem by Mathilde Blind
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Inferiority
An inferior relic of the past has just emerged,
Harmony has just slipped past, full artifacts are near.
To restate the sentence he displayed is normal,
But inferiority has a notion so abnormal.
Perplex the normal men and women of the wilderness
We see in their eyes, and see in the shoulders.
Blades currently ride on horses forced by the stewards,
And knives are from the land of blood and gore.
Horror is a notion too intricate, a masterful notion
Too sweet for the naked eyes but terrible for the ears.
A relic is crafted from the eyes of the man who is woman,
And women are men now, for the relics are inferior.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Evasion
Like a withdrawing Lilly
Devoid of its substantial charm
I recoil into the asylum
Of an imposed isolation
When words become a chokingly
Uncontainable extravagance,
I renounce voice and retreat
Into hibernating caves of silence
When truth penetrates and ridicules
My guarded solemn beliefs
I helplessly elude and hide
In the dark dungeons of ignorance
When the badly changing world
Ceases to inspire my acumen
I fall back on my deceased past
And fumble the relics of ashes and bones
[...] Read more
poem by Seema Aarella
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The Invocation Of Jealousy
The conquered world is bowed and worshipful,
And lovely Peace smooth-gowned in lightest grey
Cries, 'War is Dead' and treads upon it's skull.
While silken women walk their rosy way
Sneering at swords, and tittering at deeds,
And kicking relics with their pearl-shod feet,
Saying with mirth, 'The body never bleeds.
Old Mars is corpsed beneath great Bacchus'
seat.'
Young Mothers tell their babies of rusted spears
Of timid wolves, long fled to northern skies,
Of priests that sang of March in olden years,
And died in May with vain, despairing eyes,
The world is soothed with olive-juice and wine,
And spits upon the Quirinalian* shrine.
poem by Leon Gellert
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Love Sonnet 17 Your charms, your charms, are figments dreams are made,
Your charms, your charms, are figments dreams are made,
I wish not, to be gravely soaked wherewith,
Or else, I will be fool in love's charade,
That anyone would rightly guess forthwith;
Is it folly to wait by Heaven's door?
To chance a glimpse of your angelic face?
For should this heart be made to wish for more:
I pray, that all relics of pain efface,
To frolic unabashed in youthful dance,
To claim all joys that love, in loving gives,
And nary to things past would ever glance,
On this new day, to see what life conceives;
.....Alas, of churl, my lovestruck actions show,
.....But is it wise to miss on love I know?
.
.
poem by Reyvrex Questor Reyes
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A World Reborn Beyond the Dawn
When I look at her I feel a longing for companionship
Beyond that of which I can supply for my own requirements.
Her eyes ripple as an ocean of tears comes surging,
Eroding the valleys of memories echo unheard.
Tear back the wrapping of your Logic
Peel back the skin of your Truth.
For the seeds lay reborn relics of a proof in resurrection
Through death, through dirty comes life anew.
Surviving we are upon the hope of a world reborn beyond the dawn.
Still we’re crying over the mistakes of the past.
Leave us lost within a blue,
For a deeper blue I’ve never known.
We lay frozen – Un-aging within
The moment of expression.
I find myself alone.
poem by David Lacey
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Melancholy Ghost Terribly Obtuse
I walk through river mist
Remembering the feelings when we kissed,
Too many days forlorn in a foggy past,
Abandoned and tossed away.
Churchyard cemetery with broken gates,
Certain circumstances simply refuse to wait
But I’ve scraped myself through corridors
Of the destitute and the abhorred.
The things about you that I once adored
Decay like relics in ancient tombs,
I’m a sealed-off crime scene with empty rooms,
I’m a dusty bottle of wine two-thirds used.
I’m a melancholy ghost terribly obtuse
But I’m slowly learning not to insist
On keeping the old memories impossible to relive,
Slowly making it to the grave and learning to forgive.
poem by Uriah Hamilton
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