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Love's Dark Reflection #lovepoetry #poetrydaily #poemaday

Love was never a heartbeat. It was the echo left behind after the heart forgot why it was still beating. It arrived wearing another person's face, its hands stitched together from promises that had already begun to rot. I welcomed it. Not because it was kind, but because loneliness knows how to mistake a wolf for warmth. Every smile it offered cast a longer shadow. Every whispered "forever" fed another ghost sleeping beneath my ribs. The thought of love is a clever liar. It builds cathedrals from broken mirrors, then asks us to kneel before our own reflections, calling the illusion destiny. How eagerly we obey. We water flowers that grow from graves, write poems to people who never truly existed, and embrace memories still unborn. Love watches. Silent. Patient. Like a spider waiting in the center of a web woven from hope. It never forces us inside. It simply lets us believe the silver threads are rays of morning light. By the time we understand, the sky has forgotten our ...
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Hatred, a bitter bloom #naturepoetry #sadpoetry #freeverse #poem

Within the depths of your being
lie the awakened ruins of your own making,
silent consequences stirring
like restless spirits
beneath the soil of memory.

Your deeds were not fleeting shadows.
They were dark imprints
pressed upon the tender spirits
of innocent souls,
souls that carried no armor
against the sharpness of your cruelty.

With hands unburdened by mercy
You carved sorrow into living hearts,
your actions descending
like a merciless blade
through the fragile chambers of trust.

Such wounds do not wither.
They settle deep,
beyond the reach of time,
beyond the mercy of forgetting.
They become echoes
that linger within the marrow of remembrance.

Your cruelty did not merely pass through lives;
It rooted itself
within the quiet gardens of the human heart,
where pain grows slowly
And memory refuses to die.

And so the earth remembers.

For every soul you wounded
became a field you unknowingly tilled.
Every act of malice
was a seed pressed firmly
into the dark soil of consequence.

Now the harvest rises.

Not of peace,
not of forgiveness,
But of the very crop
Your hands once sowed.

Hatred.

A bitter bloom
growing from the ground
Your own cruelty prepared.

For the soil of life is ancient and faithful,
it returns, without error or mercy,
the exact seed
A man chooses to plant.


© 2026 Gloria Penelope

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