Poem Tag : family

The Sharpest Knife

Published on Tue, 24^th Mar 2026 at 23:35

by William Troup

Death, the sharpest knife; in brilliance, it defines us. Venerated, so many a night, yet leaning from my sight, its silent veil flails around this heart of wasted time. Morn catches a hopeful sun the moon has yet to forgive; what of it? what of me? The
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Jubilant Keepers

Published on Sat, 14^th Mar 2026 at 23:59

by William Troup

A brimming cloud determines each flowers growth; hearts in jubilant keepers lay merry nepetas. Opaque petals quietly rince summers temper under ventured winters; xeric yellows zoom!

Existence Is Alone

Published on Wed, 25^th Feb 2026 at 00:45

by William Troup

Existence is alone, therein lies the power; life, a fickle thing, shuns this waking hour. Glory of omnipotence leaves you and I alone; no further dream is needed, as existence will have grown. What of love and family? will peace cast a stone? father,
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Death and All Her Games

Published on Tue, 27^th Jan 2026 at 13:02

by William Troup

All but left is ashamed; death and all her games leaves life a cherished play, in anguish ... yet decayed. This labyrinth of time yields plenty to enclasp; but death and all her games comes crawling with a tax. All but left is ashamed; death and all her
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Perennial Streams

Published on Sun, 19^th Oct 2025 at 23:19

by William Troup

Perennial streams bore a son, riven beyond their dreams; ramparts kept his goals at bay, in a citadel born from timidity. Abode there, as he is, as sandstone withers in peace; dust and tears gather in frames, whose memories have yet to be born. Perennial
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Pink Blossoms

Published on Fri, 10^th Oct 2025 at 23:06

by William Troup

Pink blossoms within a veil of apples, effaced my fears ... begone! what tender heart begat thee? I must find her time! yet sap ascends on broken arms whose relics lay wasting upon the sod; have I spring to lay thanks to thee? have I spring to
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The Drought

Published on Wed, 20^th Aug 2025 at 23:04

by William Troup

Low upon the lake, a docile crescent moon; abash, yet stolid, and luminous to a fault. The stars lay silent, affixed upon the sky, and this thespian claims the night, as a daughter purloins the south. What of the black dahlias? in repose they haunt the fields
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