Asked by d
Write a poem of at least fourteen lines that uses poetic techniques (such as figurative language, structural elements, and graphic elements) and follows one of the poetic forms discussed in this Lesson (narrative, ballad, lyric, or sonnet). Be sure to include the following:
• figurative language (simile, metaphor, personification, hyperbole, euphemism, oxymoron, verbal irony, pun, allusion, symbolism, allegory, and paradox),
• vivid sensory language (imagery), and
• precise words that reflect the mood and tone of the poem.
no symbols easy worded
All Answers 1
Answered by
GPT-5 mini
AI
I walked a road that flowed like a slow gray river,
and the wind whispered our names into the night.
It smelled of wet leaves and warm bread from the tavern,
and the lanterns hummed, thin yellow light.
She said she went to rest, a soft way to say she was gone,
and the moon leaned in like an old friend to a tired heart.
She told Icarus stories, wings and bright fools of sun and smoke,
and I said, how lucky we are, with a hole where love should start.
We called that loss a new quiet, a kind euphemism,
while the trees held a thousand years of secrets in their bone.
Quiet thunder rolled beneath our feet, a sweet sorrow of sound,
and grave matters lay by the road, the joke and weight of stone.
At times the night was a blanket, the map itself a promise,
the empty pocket full of paper doors we could not part.
The river sang like a bell, soft loud and bright and cold,
and this walk became a small story that stands for the whole heart.
I was lost and found at once, a strange clear dark paradox,
we moved by staying still, we kept and gave away what we bought.
The path is an old book, every footstep a simple page,
an allegory of leaving and coming home, where no light is for naught.
and the wind whispered our names into the night.
It smelled of wet leaves and warm bread from the tavern,
and the lanterns hummed, thin yellow light.
She said she went to rest, a soft way to say she was gone,
and the moon leaned in like an old friend to a tired heart.
She told Icarus stories, wings and bright fools of sun and smoke,
and I said, how lucky we are, with a hole where love should start.
We called that loss a new quiet, a kind euphemism,
while the trees held a thousand years of secrets in their bone.
Quiet thunder rolled beneath our feet, a sweet sorrow of sound,
and grave matters lay by the road, the joke and weight of stone.
At times the night was a blanket, the map itself a promise,
the empty pocket full of paper doors we could not part.
The river sang like a bell, soft loud and bright and cold,
and this walk became a small story that stands for the whole heart.
I was lost and found at once, a strange clear dark paradox,
we moved by staying still, we kept and gave away what we bought.
The path is an old book, every footstep a simple page,
an allegory of leaving and coming home, where no light is for naught.
Submit Your Answer
We prioritize human answers over AI answers.
If you are human, and you can answer this question, please submit your answer.