Poetic Quotes
Someone asked me when is my birthday?The poet inside me replied, "My birthday is on the last day of the year, It's 31st December my dear!
Kept dreaming of this spot she had on her neck, this tiny country. I wanted to visit, to paint a picture of what I found there, a wall with a road map of her skin.
Yes, ” Bernarde quipped, “Deal with me, Jean Luc. Come and dance with the night, brother. Let us battle ‘till the sun turns us to ash.
I have seen beyond the bounds of infinity and drawn down daemons from the stars. . . . I have harnessed the shadows that stride from world to world to sow death and madness. . . .
Love encompasses so much, reaches so far, and heals so deeply, that any attempt to describe it, no matter how poetic, only dilutes it.
I watch the ashes swim around like dandelion puffs, making swirls where bodies and walls once stood.
..so Grandpa turned the rusty latchkey of his magnificent remembery and set free a symphony of stories
The grave casts long shadows, Iron Lord, " Mirri said. "Long and dark, and in the end no light can hold them back.
I know who I was, I can tell you who I may have been, but I am, now, only in this line of words I write.
When it has finished saying it, it no longer is. The longer it is in saying it, the more it can say it at length, the more slowly it melts, the better quality it is.
I should have bailed. That little voice had my back. That little voice is older than I am. It's older than the oldest person who ever lived. I should have listened to that voice.
You are my drug of choiceI know you’re no good for meAnd though I swear my lipsWill never touch you againHere we are, here we are.
...and the women spread their ntsaroz and sit on one side, the men on the other, like they are two different rivers that are not supposed to meet.
From her perch more than a kilometer aboveground, she surveys the city that never sleeps, glittering and coruscating in the rain like a metaphor for her glamorous life.
The rain turns lighter, turns to snow. And I have a sense that we have not yet arrived, that we are still reaching. For each other. For who we are meant to be.
Winter teetered on the verge of succumbing to the returning sun, but today the breeze still preferred the touch of snowflakes
He talks softly, patiently, as I sit on the window ledge and watch boats with colorful triangles for sails scratch the ocean.
This time as we ascend, I watch the world sinking below us. I watch the way the city fades into sand that gets washed by the ocean.
The cork was in the bottle. He and the Atropos were trapped.
As artists, we create the beautyWe are too afraid to live outAnd search, but always fall just shyOf finding what life is about.
Each moment is a poetic expression of the undefined. As long as it remains undefined, it has all the beauty of the world and it steps inside to nurture your dreams.
If someone asks you why you're oppressing a world and you reply with a lot of poetic crap, no. I guess there can't be a meeting of minds.
