A few short poems I've written (one from my french classes) :))

Can you hear it?

Can you hear it?

The faint echoes of reminiscence?

It envelops you in a blurry fog,

And muffles the frazzling noise.

Can you hear it?

As it comes abreast?

Hurtful words come forth,

Drowned in a dulcet voice.

Can you hear it?

Increments of light,

Devoured by seraphic glimmers.

It leaves you no choice.

Can you hear it?

The now screams of remembrance,

Ushering you towards the truth,

Yet it maintains its poise.

You will hear it now.

The echoes turn rampant.

The words turn harsh.

The glimmers turn ebonic.

The truth now lay on a dais, no longer bourgeois.

To the derision of all.

Foliage

I lie on the earth,

morning dew moistening my arms.

The world might have stripped my ebullience,

but She wouldn’t cause any harm.

Her komorebi slips through the delicate foliage,

blinding my dazed eyes.

The smell of dahlias fills my nostrils,

a bliss like no other vice.

I see a faint glow form in my iris,

I again see Her.

She comes abreast,

and weaves a melody into my dulcet ears.

My eyes open stiffly,

to see the azure sky overhead.

Critters trumpeted my ascent,

chittering as they fled.

She sees my anguish,

yet does not cower under a guise.

She does not laugh,

nor does She sympathise.

She simply proffers escape,

Her hands emit earth.

I ruminate on the inferno that surrounded me,

and I humbly request a rebirth.

She unfastens Her satin hands,

and envelops me in the comfort I yearn for.

I see Her gaze for one last time,

and let the earth depart and leave me to soar.

Rachischery

Atop the packed buildings,

Snow blanqueted as far as one's eye could see,

Lay us amongst the ivory-coloured coast,

The inferno in our hearts,

Ruing towards the chalky sky.

À chaque tour

À chaque tour,

Des nouvelles idées se présentent,

Mais la vie séparera celles qui pensent différemment.

À chaque tour,

Leurs âmes séparent,

Les pas des amants désunis.

À chaque tour,

Quel plaisir serait-il,

Si elles n'ont pas eu besoin de se taire ?

À chaque tour,

Quel plaisir serait-il,

Si elles n'ont pas eu besoin d'être,

Aux bottes de quelqu'un,

Qui ne les mérite pas ?