"celestial elegy”
Why: "celestial elegy”
Why didn’t I think of that as a title?
Again you pierce the surface of my words and distill every intention to a luminous and elegant essence. Thank you immensely for your generous analysis and vital encouragement.
Forgive me if I don’t have the time and energy to give your creations the attention they deserve, but you have my deepest gratitude and greatest respect.
A huge "Thank You!"
You drilled deep with such: You drilled deep with such vision, wisdom and precision that I consider this an expansion of my thoughts—a poetic follow up and therefore the highest praise.
Thank you for your gift.
Retired now, I no longer chase the almighty dollar, but I do have family responsibilities and personal endeavors that keep me very preoccupied and less motivated to read and write poetry. That’s why I’m not around much, but I do intend to return to your page when I get a chance and read your latest wonders.
You have the gift, and I would be a poorer soul if I missed your poetic sorcery in the distraction of mundane living.
Stay inspired, Mage of Words.
The modern poetic equivalent: The modern poetic equivalent to the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World is your poems, this one particularly towering over the poetic landscapeof this site like the Great Lighthouse of Alexandria. The Divine walking barefoot through metaphor and not flinching from queerness is particularly apt and beautiful, a phrase that generates a cosmic power that produces the by-products of light and warmth.
“What Is the Night Without: “What Is the Night Without You?” is a celestial elegy to longing: where starlight, moonlight, and wind become metaphors for love’s absence and memory’s weight. The speaker transforms yearning into sacred ritual, elevating missing someone into a kind of cosmic prayer. Through lines steeped in devotion and ache, the poem doesn’t just describe distance; it embodies it, making the night sky itself ache with what could have been. It’s tender, timeless, and lit from within by the dream of one kiss that might redeem all the stars.
There's a quiet devastation: There's a quiet devastation that weaves through this poem and is a hushed lament against the smothering weight of survival and distraction. It mourns unlived dreams and the fragments of self lost along the way, as youth fades and ambition turns bureaucratic. The metaphor of a “screaming infant” in the chest hauntingly captures the buried self yearning to be heard. Your imagery, especially dreams as wild mares and inspiration as a corporate climb, speaks of creativity caged by obligation. That final line feels like smoke trailing off a barely-lit match: soft, final, unforgettable. This poem doesn’t just reflect sorrow, it becomes the very breath that sorrow exhales.
Very nice, i used this AI app: Very nice, i used this AI app where it turns your words into songs.
Some of my lyrics sound amazing to the way AI designed. So now
I know how to actually sing it and have my friends learn it haha..
Yes, I have enjoyed it very: Yes, I have enjoyed it very much. I read it again, just now. The power and truth of your phrases is very, very impressive.
I used to feel that way about: I used to feel that way about Boy Scout meetings, where I was routinely bullied for appearing to be "different," and being one of the weaker kids. The bullies were sometimes as ferocious as bears.
During my first thirteen: During my first thirteen years, I lived next to a pine tree forest. Ironically, the person who owned it made a fortune each Christmas season, although he was the town's outspoken athiest. Our street, and the eleven properties that lay along the western edge of the forest, had once been part of it which, before tje State had been settled, must have been a hunting site for the natiive population as my father plowed up several flint arrowheads (which I now have) when he first laid out his back yard garden some years before he and my mother adopted me. The air was always, those thhirteen years, filled with pine scent, and both beauty and mystery adorned the forest. You describe your own forest very well; and while I cannot agree with the last line, I knew that my forest seemed like God had specifically made the forest for our town. Your poem really helped me revisit those memores . . . thank you for that.
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