Poetry by Ophelia

@calmmoon2104 I loved this, it was awesome.  Thank you for sharing. 🤗 

Wintery Slumber

Another morning,

another day of light.

Light of not the sun,

but the candle that burns my heart.

That burn is not of love,

but of hatred and despair.

Despair may be cold and skin may burn,

yet the winter cold burns the core.

The candle I hold is of blue,

blue being my sadness and hope.

Hope for the war to end,

peace to come forth this monstrosity.

Sadness for my existence of a hope,

that I feel will never come forth.

(Will the monster burn

and drown in the comfort of wintery slumber,

floating on the waves of a serene river?)

© Ophelia 

@DarkerPlaces

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Moon Jellyfish 

"Happiness is not for everyone"

I know,

I know that so very well—

that it kills me.

Every day I wake up,

see the window glass peeking through the thin curtains,

and realise..

that I never wanted to wake up.

Every tonight I fall asleep,

wishing for tomorrow to never come,

no matter a good or bad day,

I wish for the sun to never wake.

I eat well,

do my best (or so I lie)

and sleep quite good,

yet I die.

How ironic,

isn't it?

A life to be greatful for,

yet the ungrateful me fights to throw it away.

Who do I fight?

I fight the me,

the me — who holds a candle,

melting away with each hope unhoped for.

I watch the world everyday,

through my screen and through my sight all well,

and the more I watch and know,

the more I fear thar I want to go blind.

Blindness is a curse

or a blessing,

which I will not ask for..

or so I hope till the leaves fall.

Sleeping away my days,

waking by my nights,

that's lie,

both of us know.

But in lie there's truth,

so is in truth lie,

bitterness in sweetness,

sweetness in bitterness.

I live with people,

outside and inside my home,

all linked and unlinked,

all of the world.

Yet I swim,

the vast expanses of these universe,

with no one and nothing of my own,

except these musings.

I wonder,

how long till the time comes,

when even these "musings" ..

will not remain my own anymore?

Being alone shall be a bliss,

as I truly wish for,

not to be lonely but happy,

but is it too much to ask for?

I must lose my humanity,

if so god wants once I cease my breathes,

I must become a moon jellyfish,

if so I truly desire.

I fear and ruminate,

on and on,

I live on

and I,

die on and on.

(Should the perennial river dry up,

 may the moon still reflect it's light until day falls.)

© Ophelia 

Snow and Smoke

Looking up at the ceiling,

I felt a sudden urge to touch,

the unreachable white sky above,

with a blue whirligig,

churning up a storm.

Small and chapped,

creases and abysses,

oh why doesn't the whirligig stop,

or else the blades will bleed,

a water soaked cotton ball.

Smoke rises,

no windows no doors open,

water saoked cottons,

spread throughout the widths and edges,

wide and clear not a hint of wind to hear.

Oh what makes the whirligig dance?

An earthworm poked its head out

from a heap of dust 

and so did the snowy abyss shook

leaving the room with a loud halt

Bang!

Oh what a smoke,

Oh what a loud thud!

Snow doesn't escape with smoke,

cottons bury deep within scenes,

secrets contained in water.

Now no longer flows—

what would have had,

when the snow thawed. 

© Ophelia 

@DarkerPlaces

@yourlocalIKEA

@Questionnaireman

@nyxariaaa

@Macylou82

@calmmoon2104

Wowwwww awesome poem!

@calmmoon2104

wow this one we love has so much feeling in it and truth too

Snow On The Porch 

The pathways of my city,

filled with dust and snow,

follow to the cottage near the river which thaws.

The cottage is built of fragrant wood,

the color of pine and snow,

on the porch rests a cozy armchair.

Amidst this beautiful scenery,

as if out of a Monet painting,

in the mellow softness lies the *** horrors.

The cottage inside rests books a thousand,

with words infinite of pain and suffering,

to be forgotten in silence of the wintery nights.

The streets dim lit and wet,

dryness and whispers envelope—

shadows of nobody walking past the river snow.

The flute plays on at the porch,

gurgling of transient water and quiet winter,

melody of a melancholic symphony doesn't last long enough for the dawn.

On the lonely and silent porch,

as the snowfall gets heavier and heavier—

the river freezes over.

And as the sun rises of new day again,

comes the snowfall to a thaw at last,

yet on the armchair rests a flute soaked in dew.

(I most of the time wonder,

what's the meaning truly—

of water that kills the parched?)

© Ophelia