Poem Tag : family

Beneath the Leaves

Published on Sat, 22^nd Aug 2026 at 22:20

by William Troup

Beneath the leaves the soil believes this world still greaves for clouded thieves. Of what they achieved, we can but weave? as oceans deceive the shores of leaves. Beneath the leaves the stone conceives a rose in eve; shall we believe?

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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