Listening | Poetry Prompt

For the last prompt of the month, I bring to you the #1000Speak for compassion. This time the theme is “listening.” What does it really mean to listen? Has there been a time when you needed to be heard, but no one did? Have you listened to the voice inside your head and it steered you wrong? Did you listen to your mother’s advice and good things did happen? Was there a time when you were a trouble maker in school and one teacher helped you to listen and find your voice?

The prompt is as wide and free as your mind. Give me something tasty to chew on this week y’all. I need my brain teased. If you’d like, your poem can be added to the little zine that one of the members of #1000Speak for Compassion will be collating.

Be sure to share with us your poem either by linking back to this post or copying it directly into the comments. Can’t wait to read what you come up with.

Hope you have a great week and happy writing!

One thought on “Listening | Poetry Prompt

  1. I used the prompt to do something a little outside of poetic boundaries. Enjoy!!

    Thoughts enrich the nothingness

    Thoughts enrich the nothingness, the quill was slain into burlesque silence that dreadful night, nailed stiff on the floor’s dirt, gazing at the ravishing stars of another time that has passed towards future, the shades mesmerizing shadows, or was it just listening to the savage moment of decadent existence.
    A mute hearkening into the unknown of leathery parchments, the maddening abyss, where glyphs and runes contort enigmas of mortals and immortals, as they ascend or decay into greatness nevertheless, something wicked, forbidden but tantalizing into fathoming laced layers of virginal spirits, bearing the enlightenment of archaic chimeras.
    All humans lurk beyond words unspoken towards zillions of untold every single thing and, therefore, the quill was listening the unshaped edges of luscious whispers, and the brooding of cherished solitude…
    That dreadful night, where aghast travelers and livid adventurers are twisting the afterlife, spoke in languages of the mythical fantasy, recognized thru juicy dialects and restless tongue, the quill glimpsed and noticed the dawn of twilights and the twilights opening a new epoch, were no daylight and sun pierced the thoughts. It would be a refreshing eavesdropping upon the infinite of a single listening performed by ecstatic molecules.
    Believe the listed, heed the path, mind the howling, and attain the heaven of considerations for when the subconscious will shatter in blazing memories and the viscous chaos will enfold the liquefied shivers of gazing at the ravishing stars.
    … The goddess, the witch, the nymph and the muse… they are not bound in the heavy chains of the quietness when listening, even in their silence they express their burlesque selves loud, clear, untamed and primal. They are the livid veils that shelter the quill. They are the silken lashes that flog the surreal engagements. A will and an epitaph hidden in the entombed concentration watch over torrid notes of azure tranquility, vellums of obscured sultry and impish sins within the Elysium Fields or deep baptized in the Styx’s mirage, exposing obliterated consequences, into boundless laws and canons facing abominable apocalypse.
    The ravens chant a pagan hymn, as the quill awakens in tormented resurrections, converging into a unholy mass, under the obedient moon, in a waltz of carved clouds and beams of darkness. The nothingness was and then it was no more, whispers, hymns, howls, echoes, clouds, mists, silence and happiness of isolation, each one birthed as a new creator of incomprehensive webs which can only be listening for new antiquity.
    It was too late… a dawn of lateness into never-ending feelings… they arrived… forbidden… forgotten… why was the quill stiff as a cadaveric rose? The sunrise was not worthy to share the disemboweled solitude… They were listening; the righteousness of magnetic grace and the raven’s hymn ceasing into another sanctimonious hierarchy of the goddess, the witch, the nymph and the muse; a haze of exaltation ascending into descent omitting to mark the mile stoning dawns of deceptive ramblings. The dreadful night of discovery and teachings… all that remain are acquired prophecies.
    Times do not pour… they claim conclusions only to regain emerald beginnings, dawns of twilights… dawns of fleshes of night… heed and await the final listening… lend your ear to a tainted quill that encrypts what the maze of calm has blended in its chasms. The chronicled miracle of naked truths merges in daring desires of engraved goddess, witch, nymph and muse.
    And they vanished invading every molecule of the quill and setting him upon uncharted paths, where the weave of destiny cannot be felt or seen… enriching the nothingness… the ravishing stars of another time hear the bewildering nectar of thoughts… unfathomable confessions… to listen all is the sadness of silent isolation… to acknowledge all… is revealing the Grim Reaper upon soul’s savory radiations.

    © 25 August 2015 Vlad Teodor Petcu @ Visele unui insomniac


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