Mirrors poems bring the best collection of short and long mirrors poetry. Poems for him and her and every poetry lover. These great mirrors rhymes are so amazing they will touch your heart and keep you craving for more. Hope you find your own deep meanings in these mirrors poems. They are decent, rhyming, free spirited and true. Thoughts on mirrors are here for you.
Confined to these walls guardians surrounding my transparent figure created to serve you I am the eye that is not part of you you come to me blind, uncertain, unknowledgeable seeking to know beauty, ugly but my sight surpasses that
Did you see him half-nude before a mirror, bristles on a bear’s chest, his freckled hands stretching towards your chin, unshaved, colorless, talkative like pimples on your finger-tips, the purple of old blood, the gleam of grey teeth. Drink the
for beheading the raceme three bullets went into the bubbling chest the assassins had come when she was alone with scars on wings she sailed on voices of silence the melody had kissed the moon in night without veil it
There was a time when I sat still. Soaking in unavoidable truth. Choosing instead to sit and bathe in a world of thought. The sun peeked through the window, concerned by the calmness that struck my lips. A sudden grip
I feel the tiredness of my years, those quiet times when breath appears in melting mosaic imagery, upon the mirrors of a sea that only calls so many names, through pious sunlit tortured flames that scrape themselves away from light,
There are three kinds of love, Love that tests you, Love that loves you, Love that doesn’t love you back. The love that tests you, doesn’t conquer, it leads you, to the unfathomable galaxies, most of them are imaginary, where
A new twilight I see each day, Through the echos of broken mirrors, The whites are all blood stained, The lights are getting dimmer The wounds are fresh and open, The glass so clear and sharpened, As they pierce through
Atlantic City, not a place but the fragment Of a memory that lights up bright and garish In the starless night when day is done When ragged dreams arise from murky beds Beneath the waves washing up like seaweed On
Drifting high on a gentle breeze and grazing the tops of lofty trees, watching below, all the people move but there’s nothing left, up here, to prove. Floating higher and into the clouds, the sultry silence so deafeningly loud. Throbbing
(1) Tents are crowded by windows, but missing walls and a jasmine flower. (2) A window is a border between consciousness and sub-consciousness, between Ego and its annihilation. (3) A home without a window is a blind man with no
Anti-howling receives the deserter. There was a mass breast-beating without any noise. The pugnacious jaw drops. Shows a frail sensitivity to tormented values – of invisible mirrors, shutting down the wolf’s face. An ancient spider jumps on your bronzed ego.
One Life, one Fate, one Love… That one-time, ravishing, sudden love, peeling the layers of years lived in apathy, finally reaching your soul; Times, when you were anonymous to yourself, walking hollow and weary in penumbra of your life; And
Gaze into the mirror at the face behind the mask and wonder if it’s really you, or don’t you dare to ask? Who can know what lies beyond the mirrors fragile face, reflections of another life; another time or place?
Heart beats say knock knock Feeling the sentimental shocks Listening to the bells of love clocks Silently progressing those tic toks Those lips and their locks Smokers’ lips and the romantic lip locks! Belladonnas are dancing with blazing frocks Birds
The silence shattered like a crystal glass on a marble floor And every splintered diamond shard glittered like a newborn dream, As rising sun fingers trickled over them in blood red and gold contusions Dawn was the servant who had
There was the hunger and suicide. In favor of my brutal truth or virtue of my failure, I do not want any comments on my trauma. Morality has a dubious equation with power, provoking my anger. The days were full
One could tell that she had ascended from a peaceful and noble family of visionaries This rare beauty was never bounded by mirrors of painted images and selfishness She loved the open views that afforded her a first hand look
You know I do not hope any intermission, between life and death. My path goes nowhere. A hiatus between the mirrors has questions. From childhood I was always floating between the meanings of lessons unknown. I longed for straight humilities.
She offers far greater potential than the frame upon which she attaches She is flexible, agreeable, and delights to be covered, opened, or closed She provides a reality far and above her surrounding strong walls If you should decide to
Grief is a house, where the chairs have forgotten how to hold us. the mirrors how to reflect us, the walls how to contain us. Grief is a house that disappears, each time someone knocks at the door or rings
Walking beside a river, watching landscapes mirror underneath the sun Subtle colours, everyone encapsulated by the river pictures all across and along Yellow flowers, look at them for hours and the branches stretch like towers, entwining from earth to beauty
My love, I would like for you to be sad in my absence, wandering among thorny regions, miserable, drowning in dry leaves, picking little stone to throw at noisy birds and children. My love, I would like for you to
Again I wake in this wretched place Where the devil glares with grimaced face Reading my heart, stripping it bare Savoring the scent of the secrets there I’m slipping and sliding, the ice too thin Carefully creeping, lest I fall
You toppled the invisible burning the unburied buttons joining the history of names. Will I be able to communicate with straw to find out the age of the unarrived seeds? There is too much violence in green blood. The broken
Casuarina! I miss you a lot. Why don’t you reclaim this drab century by your drooping branches, off from the poetry of water? The words are dried up. No rustling sounds, the winged creatures broke the mirrors, a black moon.
After the rain wets the ground, a damp, naked silence, floats in air on the wrong side of the moon. A strange mist, like a post coital whiff envelops you savagely. The testa breaks. A forest heaves beneath your nails.
Wanted to wear the grief uncrying, sitting on the bank, counting the waves, watching the swaying of earthen lamps. There was a little water on the moon, charged atoms settling in the lap of a sponge. The water becomes the
Night after night, watching your face shimmer with tears, night after night, watching your face burrow into my breast, I have wondered, my love, full of misery and mystery, I have wondered. This being, so incredibly sad, this being, so
Sitting at the edge of a bubble uncooled, trying to light an eternal flame of anonymity; counter the wrangler, one skull in each hand, of ancestors, you prepare for the crime of breaking the umbilical cord. Ostracized, you forge the
I can not move, so my inane soul Lumbering on grass bed, wonderfully separated. Above me the scorching June afternoon Tearing apart my very self, baking my budding marigolds. Mine fettered hands with numerous wants On vain quest of fetching
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
Along the road to an old city, within the wrinkles of mountains hanged by their heads, spiders are still spreading their webs at caves’ doors. Tales come out off embers, waiting for those who pass by. Canes which are forgetful
You get on the freeway and floor it all those maplines and dots coming briefly to life like water drops in a hot frying pan you stop when you get hungry you fight through the tired trying to save money
Are angelic neurons fleshing inside a trans-Inquisition tavern? Another kind of speaking, pontificating globe? Can we feel the burning and sexing of the four seasons with the four elements, recycling earth, water, air, fire, to produce the quintessence of your
Let us go then, you and I… Let us go then… Tired? Surprisingly, we have been saying this a hundred years. It haunts. The hallucination continues. No, it leap-frogs. Eliot was dead before I was born, before we were born.