The mere word has a rhythm to it. Poem is a verbal composition in which the expression of feelings and ideas are intensified with the help of diction (sometimes involving rhyme), rhythm, and imagery. Poems are classified into various sections, some of which are included in the sub-categories here. Poems are usually designed to convey experiences, ideas, or emotions in a vivid and imaginative way, by the use of language chosen for its sound and suggestive power and by the use of literary techniques such as meter, metaphor, and rhyme. Hope you enjoy every poem you read at HighOnPoems.
It is autumn grapes are bleeding. The orange color seeps into your eyes. Will you shut the green lids? You, start reading backward. Atavistic instinct to dig up the severed hands? Your house, died in the flower bed. Seeds were
Be with me in this zone of pain. My poems was walking through me. The flute I broke, in the river of silence. Someone was whispering to me in sleep. Why this desire of awakening in darkness, when light was
Unsown peaks of fear under aggression. I ask you to make a choice between I and inventing yourself. I will not abandon the tree: the animal, renunciation. The belief and emptiness will find symbols of foreverness. Ephemeral colors; Leaves will
Today, go undivine with me and remain untouched, in dwindling love of faith. A forerunner of nothingness in a theological mess, breaking the mirrors in a slaughter house, finding a god. Collecting ruins of sounds, veils, traversing the fecundity of
That targeted sleep will not come at once in the tamed night. A shifted pain lifts the irretrievable word shamed at edge. The godwings weave the rhyme of flight for the wedding of death. You are born again in sleep
Ethics takes a nap, in a blink, without qualms. * A jilted lover, like a broken moon, takes a jump from the hill. * In this twilight who am I, in this crowd of sinners? ———————————————– Ethics takes a nap,
To wean away a tigermoth from a bell jar for a journey of faith against ebony of illusion. The caterpillar has restrained the roof, of future accidents to coming of age. You do not know the speed of nakedness on
That satanic streak of tireless undressing of a hapless monarch. Wings were gone. Cannot fly across the tree of hypocricy. A footmat for the suicidal jump from the elegant hierarchy to grainy lies. Why are you turning ungreen? You will
In the cavernous mind a thought becomes redundant. You go straight for a snakeroot. A flat cluster of white flowers spurs a stigma at the white moon for floating rumors. This was my native pain of brilliant tapestry. The threads
A bucketful of moon falls on my door with the smell of a salted night on frozen shoulders of a punctured landscape. I start expanding unseeing a sentimental lake. Life was asking a very high price for the purple bruises.
Be my soul in outrageous sunshine of knowledge. I need a shade of tears. The barrels were still smoking after the war. I will not wake up in morning. Lightless the day will mourn for the fallen moon on the
From the unread book I look back at three generations, with whom I was fighting for a staircase, which did not take me anywhere. It was an edge over the wisdom for footfalls in space for an apology for an
Still listening from lips, a mute hearing with hands, an improper metaphor. …………………………………… In the frozen lake of eyes a fish dies in unread tears. …………………………………. An upended home of laments in moon. …………………………………. Imperfect proximity of pillows. sleep was
The native walls were hounding me- out of game. I was playing chess with god. Was stoned to death. A small boy’s arm was crushed. He stole a bread. What was the truism of unheard voices? Groping in green darkness
That roasting night when honeyed moon hung high weaving a humming sound I spoke to clouds. It happens every night, when smoke rises to discover the pain of a falling star. I start making a god from earth and water.
A thought starts a fire loosening the lips. I want to scream. Between dreams and stars a sky hung with inverted moon. The desire springs a scythe but cannot cut a jellyfish of eye. A sunstroke was speechless without a
For a messenger of lies I lay down the script. A kick starts the game. I am the only visitor to the gallery. Kamasutra suicide displayed was a way of expression of a revolt against honour killing of your own
From hereness to thereness a heat flows- in the height of fears. A timeless need to map out the pain of earth, floating on clouds. Lemon grass cuts the swan lake. There was a devil in water, hiding under the
Slicing the red velvet not drawing blood with your nails you walk on the body of compromise kissing the fleece of death. Untitled, larger than life unpresent, missed moments would take the revenge from no thing. The violence will end
Do you object to sexual encounters in the clan to save a semi-god from extinction? A political consideration? For you becoming an otherself for future generation? I will not return to the cave for a bell jar of bones in
I hate the self-immolation of orange sex. Weather was leaving blue strings on the skin. Redemption was incomplete by sharing the legs Lips will not knead the ears. Like wakng in darkness for a passage to grief. Black moon will
You walk on burning embers like a black stone to meet the end before beginning on empty landscape. What was the need to cross a saviour? Death had the wedding anniversary in a garden – full of blessings for the
On wrong side of truth a prophecy burns. A conflict of your own choosing when more was less. Do you need some divine intervention in resolving human questions? The innocence of a sunflower will not blame the moon for dark
Cutting across the food wars against adamant century do you think we will become extinct in this uncool climate? The dying windows do not throw any light. I fear in dark alone. The earthworms are nibbling at history of mankind.
Blood was in season, on your hands. A staged encounter mauling the clouds. Into a hare, you put the lead with a roar of gun and sun wants his share. Beneath the honours lies the guilt of a ravaged moon.
Fear grips a family of words. You are going to where you do not want to go. I remain worried about the unknown. The inevitable was flowering on dead palms. Would you exhume the past to find out, what the
Living between the deaths as a witness to a silence between the words. Leaves had fallen: yet a dry tree was still flowering exuberantly under a scorching sun. My day has come, but I was far away from shores of
Confessional truth is not my aggressive ego, it is my fault. The resolution of my conflicts with time, the smell of the broken limbs, my head in hoisted fever, my eyes searching for a cloud. The ultimate otherness, of an
It was a wake up call invoked in the beginning of serene numbness. Under the veiled threat of a moon celebrating the kill. A path in croci; waiting becomes a torture for a saffron sundown, mercury was rising on snowy