Massacre poems bring the best collection of short and long massacre poetry. Poems for him and her and every poetry lover. These great massacre rhymes are so amazing they will touch your heart and keep you craving for more. Hope you find your own deep meanings in these massacre poems. They are decent, rhyming, free spirited and true. Thoughts on massacre are here for you.
Intended to violate the omnipresent, stillness unzips the inviolate – truth. You walk through a legend: To test the chastity you need to dip your hand in a very hot oil. A sleepless summer night descends on the hill violins
Untie the knot, patriarch, the broken kiss was intimidating. The backhoe picks up the devil, it was within you when you were casting stone at the fear. The pagan was covered with leaves raw and pailful; belief in a thought
Men have become immune to stress. Men have become resistant to mess. Who made you and me immune and resistant? It is the new world order don’t be so hesitant. A new world order where we play with bombs. Where
Your window was very small. Why did not you throw the dice? Walk away without a want? I had no courage to tell the lies, to hold the secrets of brave tears, which failed to live in red-bricked house. And
Born out of hate condemned to fear each other, the race lives, the race dies. The loser finds a quotient to dig a mass grave for innocent paeans. My stains were bigger than you. In no man’s land, a corpse
Violence !Bloodshed ! Massacre ! Hatred and callousness having its nasty play across the globe, inflicting myriad miseries on innocent people here and there, every now and then . And all these insane acts in the name of God !
It was a big trauma. Granary went overboard, my boat was torpedoed. No romance was left now. At the burial of the moon aliens were arriving. You do not want to call it a genocide. The massacre of millions, of
He did not want anything after the sex and death of a protagonist. Rebuffed and sliced through the body, the onus was left on toxic mix. He died in deprivation, in intensity of hunger and fluidity of thirst. The quartet
One’s existence was threatened by the overseeing iguana like crested disguise. Repressive, explosive eyes. You are trapped in words beneath bewitching smile. The ‘V’ sign for violence becomes more obvious. That hits you in face. The eastern wind is blowing.
Carrying my words in a small jewel box I was listening to silence of falling rain, to heal my truth. A blueberry moon was peeking from behind the hills. Crazy clouds started a celebration. Sometimes you want to stop in
Poetry evokes feelings, Stimulates thoughtful expressions, Evolving a strange emotion, Of an image in mind. It transforms everything, With a new perspective, A reflection of a photographic sight, In significant verses. Poetry is a pictorial, Imagery of words, Intensely used
A golden cave was afraid Of a blue thrust. Hands were not able to console the mirror. Let us step back for a last laugh. You were talking to yourself when the canary was set free from the house arrest.
(Tribute to the Banished Silver Surfer – he is herald again) Please tell Galactus, I can’t do his will And shine like sap that drips from putrid pine, Stare into space from some ingested pill Or from a dose of
Throughout the night, We were running here and there in the Hospital, We both were tense and anxious Because we were waiting for a new arrival The person who was inside Was someone’s daughter and someone’s wife The seconds, minutes
It does not take Long for Nature to Reveal her other Face. Does not take Long for a Gentle breeze to Turn into a Raging hurricane; Does not take Long for the Distant lightning to Strike with million volts; Does
The will to create and the wish to destroy, it is time you acknowledge, has never been yours to own, Because, in your vengeance, in your unmindful impatience, in your immaculate madness, when your soul turns to stone – You
With stoicism writ on face I invite the chisels for giving birth to a dialogue between me and the shaper. Where did the things go wrong in making the life a simple page to write a beautiful poem? Buddha give
My heart longs for your consoling words. My ears longs to hear your footstep. My nose longs for your smell.. My skin longs for your touch. My head longs to lie in solace of your arms. My eyes are weary
Perfect bridges for a fading light taking you to dark caves like fireclay in fake sorrows. The superstition of a race pool and unearthing the sacred temple under a mount of lies. In vitro a baby god sleeps waiting for
Perhaps a word of encouragement, for you is overdue Perhaps it’s not my job, to try to comfort you Just know that in this moment, my intentions are for good But my intentions rarely work out, the way that I
Zola the Zebra lived far, far away and always had so much fun, with lots of friends they laughed and played and sang beneath the hot sun. At first, her friends were a little confused and thought her a curious
I am a Christian, that fell from Grace, Yet I have not, forgot my place. The battles from within, and without, Took me, to a place called doubt. I fell, but not all the way, Straddling the fence, is what
He sat outside on the staircase His eyes gazed towards the streetway ‘Come on in son’ his mother said to him, ‘your dad will be working late tonight’ ‘Well, he kissed my forehead strangely this morning’ the son replied ‘And
She doesn’t look like much White,flat and pale on a ghostly scale Nothing mesmerising to touch But without her consent I can tell no tale. She is proud of her spotless white shroud This picky princess seldom settles For wearing
1916. Rossetti and Taberlet. Those are the first two names we read on the memorial, The captured soldier breaking for freedom, stood silently upon the delicately quiet letters that form lost names. There for decades, in sleepy Morzine. The thick
In tottering penetration of blue summer you become silent game. I accept my defeat from stones falling on intellect. Carbon fear of rosewood was rising to reintegrate illicit love of twilight. Testing the waters, before a swim in prophecies I
The shells have not spared the lush slopes. There will be no flora left till dusk. The rocks have blocked the path behind. Chimney-climb not possible. The river-side is being bombed incessantly! A few bullets last in my pockets. And
What is peace, is peace a myth, from observing the world peace does not exist, unless it’s a mind state, or a frame of mind, the aforementioned means the same as well as man kind, peace is harmony, that’s a
Before we knew it we were on another planet Twelve thousand light years from home The hours spun backwards subtracting days Then weeks, then whole months from our lives We stuffed what was left into our rucksacks And with the
The bushes, I remember, have been there in the tales of my love! The breath, the tears, and the aura of virgin forest – The art, the sighs, the darkness, the motorcycle, the roads, the unending journeys, have been there!
Daily I see a different me, each morning I notice- an iota of sheen missing, a part of me has withered, chipping regularly from somewhere or the other, a delta difference between me and the me from yesterday, Am I
I saw the scene full of flowers and I saw the Actor choking, drowned in petals, leaves, which entered his mouth, nostrils, ears, covering him until nothing was left of him. Poor Actor. What a death! Smothered by the flowers