#poemprompt

Winter is here, and the wolves are ready

• Model: Artistic 2

• Size: 1886 X 1061 (2.00 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt: The wind, that sneaky bastard, it used to whisper through the pines, soft, like a lover's promise in July. Now it howls, a goddamn wolf, ripping the last leaves from the birches like an old man tearing up lottery tickets. The lake, she's holding her breath, that dark mirror gone still, waiting for the first icy hand to grip her. The sun, that lazy prick, barely bothers to climb over the treeline anymore. Just a weak, yellow yawn across the fields, and then it's back to bed. The air, it smells different now. Not of damp earth and mushrooms, but of something sharp, something clean. Like a freshly sharpened axe. The ground, hard as a miser's heart, no more give, no more softness. Even the crows sound different, their cawing more urgent, like they know something we don't. Or maybe they just know what's coming. The long dark. The silence. The cold that seeps into your bones and makes you question if spring will ever come back. But then... But then you see the first snowflakes. Fat, lazy, like they've got all the time in the world. And you know it's here. Winter. And it's not just an ending, is it? It's a beginning, too. A time for stories by the fire. A time for the Northern Lights to dance. A time for the world to sleep, and dream of what's to come. And maybe, just maybe, we'll dream a little, too.
  • Using base image: No
  • Aspect Ratio: landscape_wide

If only winter's arrival were this playful

• Model: AIVision

• Size: 1792 X 1008 (1.81 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt: The sun, a shy visitor, slips away earlier each day, leaving behind a chill that clings like a forgotten scent. Wind, once a playful whisper, now bites with teeth of ice, whistling through bare branches, a mournful tune. Green retreats, fading, replaced by a stark canvas of grey and brown, skeletal silhouettes against a pearl-pale sky. Breath hangs, visible ghosts in the frosty air, a tangible reminder of the shift, the slow descent. First flakes fall, tentative, hesitant dancers, then a flurry, a rush, blanketing the world in quiet. Winter arrives, not with a shout, but a hushed exhale, a settling silence.
  • Using base image: No
  • Aspect Ratio: landscape_wide

Final Fantasy VII

• Model: AIVision

• Size: 1024 X 1024 (1.05 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt: The Planet did not forgive us. The pulse of veins flows through the earth A faint pulse Of a heart drawn to death. A gentle life returns to the Planet.
  • Using base image: No
  • Aspect Ratio: square

Two Omens

• Model: Artistic

• Size: 1152 X 896 (1.03 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt: The Raven Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore— While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. “’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door— Only this and nothing more.” Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December; And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore— For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore— Nameless here for evermore. Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore; Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door— Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door— Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
  • Using base image: Yes