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What Lies Beyond: And Other Poetry by Natalie Miller

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Natalie Miller

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“I want to make you mine, not just in whispered promises, not just in silent prayers, but in the life we build, brick by brick, hand in hand. But my hands empty, searching grasp only air where security should be. Not because I do not try, not because I do not dream, but because the world demands more than love alone. I am not afraid of struggle. I am not ashamed of waiting. But I fear the days slipping, the distance stretching, the time that asks me, "When?" when I have no answer yet. I do not want to come to you with only poetry in my pockets, with only love in my voice. I want to bring you a future, solid as the ground beneath our feet, safe as the home I will build for us. So I walk forward, step by step, fight by fight, knowing that one day, when I stand before you, it won’t just be as a lover but as the man who kept his promise.”

LovePoemWait
Author:Janid Kashmiri
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“7 Angry Men A few gentlemen, occupy a room They laugh and talk and gossip and croon Whatever they do, they do in unison Until it was time to leave, for the night is done The first agonized, with rain but no cover The second agathed over the fallen quarter The third in a hurry, stubbed his toe The shriek he incurred, woke those below The fourth, drunk enough, walked but failed The fifth, nonchalant about his car being towed The sixth, why, he can't leave Until everyone is gone, and hands over the keys! Seven angry men, They reside in a room Last one, you ask? Ah, beware - it might just be you”

FictionHumourPoem
Author:Dishebh Bhayana
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“And what of the dead? I own that I thought of myself, at times, almost as dead. Are they not locked below ground in chambers smaller than mine was, in their millions of millions? There is no category of human activity in which the dead do not outnumber the living many times over. Most beautiful children are dead. Most soldiers, most cowards. The fairest women and the most learned men – all are dead. Their bodies repose in caskets, in sarcophagi, beneath arches of rude stone, everywhere under the earth. Their spirits haunt our minds, ears pressed to the bones of our foreheads. Who can say how intently they listen as we speak, or for what word?”

Death
Book:The Citadel of the Autarch
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