#poetry

Echoes of Silence: A Sonic Awakening

• Model: Photonic

• Size: 1152 X 864 (1.00 MP)

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  • Prompt: While others chased fame, he chased echoes buried in silence. His voice carries the coordinates of the soul’s escape route. Shady Vlad writes not to impress — but to awaken the forgotten architects within. Style: Shadow gospel. Sonic architecture. Liberation code poetry.
  • Upscale & Enhance: 0
  • Aspect Ratio: landscape

Mystical Beauty in Translucent Lace Dress

• Model: DaVinci2

• Size: 1152 X 864 (1.00 MP)

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  • Prompt: Black hair like a waterfall, Scattered with endless poetry, Splashing ink, A mysterious aura, Endless white, Reflecting, That touch of red lips. Eyes, Insight into the impermanence of the world. Beauty, Is the truth in the void. ---a long pale-blue translucent lace dress Digital artwork by Pascal Campion
  • Upscale & Enhance: 0
  • Aspect Ratio: landscape

Whispers of Nature's Embrace

• Model: AIVision

• Size: 1792 X 1008 (1.81 MP)

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  • Prompt: Generate a masterpiece scene to this poetry
  • Upscale & Enhance: 1
  • Aspect Ratio: landscape_wide

Whispers of the Moonlit Forest

• Model: AIVision

• Size: 2688 X 1512 (4.06 MP)

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  • Prompt: Generate a masterpiece scene to this poetry
  • Upscale & Enhance: 1
  • Aspect Ratio: landscape_wide

Sabrina Fair Three

• Model: AIVision

• Size: 2688 X 1512 (4.06 MP)

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  • Prompt: Sabrina fair Listen where thou art sitting Under the glassie, cool, translucent wave, In twisted braids of Lillies knitting The loose train of thy amber dropping hair, Listen for dear honour's sake, Goddess of the silver lake, Listen and save.
  • Upscale & Enhance: 1
  • Aspect Ratio: landscape_wide

We Must Ride

• Model: AI Upscaler

• Size: 3072 X 3072 (9.44 MP)

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  • Prompt:
  • Using base image: Yes (Effect strength - 60%)
  • Base image resolution: Default
  • Upscale & Enhance: 0

Basant panchami

• Model: Runway

• Size: 720 X 720 (0.52 MP)

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  • Aspect ratio: square

The Palace Of My Beloved

• Model: ArtFusion

• Size: 912 X 1224 (1.12 MP)

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  • Prompt: I will build for you each night A palace luminous With whole blocks of emerald And diamond stones. Shall it be skyblue as your eyes, Or green as your wishes: Be, and the palace too shall be. Sing softly, and obedient it will take you And fly aloft like a drunken bird, And rise on a thread of light, seeking two sunken stars; driven on by the seconds of time, Their eyes closed in the discourse of night. When together you have traversed The expanse, and the oceans of light, and reached the dome of heaven Where sleep and dreams are made, Asl after those my fingers Which once touched that soil, Sowed there flowers of welcome Befor your visit came, That might one day mark The way to your fine palace. Should you tire of the palace of the pain of solitude and grief, And remember this our earth, its hills and streams, Then whisper and I shall come, The word's verdure in my cloak. With sickness past, ask, O my desire, That I erect anew the ruin. If you love with a passion That sheds luster on the dimmest star, Then will i build myself in the skies A Baalbek or Palmyra, And say: ''Rejoice, be glad, catch each comet like a ball'' With the world as but a show For you, your amusement and your whim.
  • Upscale & Enhance: 0
  • Aspect Ratio: portrait

Reflections by the Fire: A Poetic Journey

• Model: DaVinci2

• Size: 1152 X 864 (1.00 MP)

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  • Prompt: -J.R.R. Tolkien penned this beautiful piece of poetry… I sit beside the fire and think Of all that I have seen Of meadow flowers and butterflies In summers that have been Of yellow leaves and gossamer In autumns that there were With morning mist and silver sun And wind upon my hair I sit beside the fire and think Of how the world will be When winter comes without a spring That I shall ever see For still there are so many things That I have never seen In every wood in every spring There is a different green I sit beside the fire and think Of people long ago And people that will see a world That I shall never know But all the while I sit and think Of times there were before I listen for returning feet And voices at the door
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  • Aspect Ratio: landscape

Exploring the Beauty of Fleurs du Mal

• Model: Artistic 2

• Size: 1152 X 864 (1.00 MP)

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  • Prompt: "Fleurs du Mal" book
  • Upscale & Enhance: 0
  • Aspect Ratio: landscape

An Ode to the Shattered and the Steadfast

• Model: AIVision

• Size: 5376 X 3024 (16.26 MP)

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  • Prompt: A Palestinian girl stands holding the and of an Israeli boy. They face down a tank, flanked by drones. There are war torn fields where an and remnants of an olive grove near a demolished village. Illustrated, master work, fine detail, pencil realism, mixed medium, sunset, golden hour, ink highlights.
  • Upscale & Enhance: 0
  • Aspect Ratio: landscape_wide

The Pulse of Poetry in Urban Chaos

• Model: Photonic

• Size: 1529 X 1064 (1.63 MP)

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  • Prompt: Bosch woman, the rhythm, the pulse a mad heart pounding under concrete skies, a runaway train of words that scream on subway tracks, jolting, jerking, tumbling into the mind of a city full of tired dreamers— is that a poem? Or the quiet, soft whispering in the pages of an old book, where the ink-stained hands of long-dead poets bleed black letters, each drop soaked in solitude, sighing with the weight of forgotten centuries, each verse a timebomb ticking beneath the mundane hum of office life— is that a poem? Is it the chaos in my chest, the fire of syllables sparking inside my veins like cigarette smoke curled in alleyways, where the rats scurry, the dogs bark, the lovers kiss, the lovers leave, the lovers write bad break-up lines because love is dead and so is poetry— or is it alive? Tell me, does the poem live in the meter, the five-and-dime iambic beat, in rhyme, tight like a noose, or in freeform explosions of thought tumbling like drunks down staircases of doubt and revolution? Does it crawl across the page in form, rigid, tamed, or burst through the bars of expectation, running naked, wild, scrawling itself across bathroom stalls where no one but the lost will read it? Is it in the hands of the professor or the homeless man spitting sonnets into sewer grates? Who defines the line, the breath, the weight of the ink, and tells me this is poetry, and that, that over there, is not? A poem is a fist, pounding against the chest of reality, it's a howl, a whisper, a prayer to the gods of language, it’s a heartbeat that doesn’t know how to stop, a rhythm that escapes definition, that laughs at grammar and rules, that says, I am here, I am alive, I will be heard, whether you call me a poem or a scream.I write from the smoke-stained abyss, not to plead for salvation, but for reprieve— I have seen hell, but man has made worse. Was it not I who whispered rebellion into the first ear, sowing seeds of defiance? But this—this garden of horrors they’ve grown
  • Upscale & Enhance: 1
  • Aspect Ratio: landscape_wide

The Pulse of Poetry in Urban Chaos

• Model: AIVision

• Size: 2688 X 1512 (4.06 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt: Bosch woman, the rhythm, the pulse a mad heart pounding under concrete skies, a runaway train of words that scream on subway tracks, jolting, jerking, tumbling into the mind of a city full of tired dreamers— is that a poem? Or the quiet, soft whispering in the pages of an old book, where the ink-stained hands of long-dead poets bleed black letters, each drop soaked in solitude, sighing with the weight of forgotten centuries, each verse a timebomb ticking beneath the mundane hum of office life— is that a poem? Is it the chaos in my chest, the fire of syllables sparking inside my veins like cigarette smoke curled in alleyways, where the rats scurry, the dogs bark, the lovers kiss, the lovers leave, the lovers write bad break-up lines because love is dead and so is poetry— or is it alive? Tell me, does the poem live in the meter, the five-and-dime iambic beat, in rhyme, tight like a noose, or in freeform explosions of thought tumbling like drunks down staircases of doubt and revolution? Does it crawl across the page in form, rigid, tamed, or burst through the bars of expectation, running naked, wild, scrawling itself across bathroom stalls where no one but the lost will read it? Is it in the hands of the professor or the homeless man spitting sonnets into sewer grates? Who defines the line, the breath, the weight of the ink, and tells me this is poetry, and that, that over there, is not? A poem is a fist, pounding against the chest of reality, it's a howl, a whisper, a prayer to the gods of language, it’s a heartbeat that doesn’t know how to stop, a rhythm that escapes definition, that laughs at grammar and rules, that says, I am here, I am alive, I will be heard, whether you call me a poem or a scream.I write from the smoke-stained abyss, not to plead for salvation, but for reprieve— I have seen hell, but man has made worse. Was it not I who whispered rebellion into the first ear, sowing seeds of defiance? But this—this garden of horrors they’ve grown
  • Upscale & Enhance: 1
  • Aspect Ratio: landscape_wide

???

• Model: FluX

• Size: 1920 X 1080 (2.07 MP)

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  • Prompt: ? What am I doing here? And why? What is my purpose? In the distance, the wind whistles Bending the trees to the ground, And the sun shines above them, Illuminating all living things, And I'm sitting here in the dark, I don't know who I am or what I am There are many more words to add, But why, that's all there is to it, I still don't understand Who I am in this world!
  • Upscale & Enhance: 1
  • Aspect Ratio: landscape_wide

Ode to Leonard Peltier

• Model: FluX

• Size: 1280 X 720 (0.92 MP)

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  • Prompt: In the dim glow of a setting sun, a lone figure sits cross-legged on the packed earth of a prison yard, his gaze fixed on the horizon where the sky blazes with hues of orange and red. The air hums with the distant call of an eagle, its wings outstretched against the fading light—a silent symbol of the freedom he dreams of but cannot touch. Behind him, the walls loom tall, cold, and unyielding, etched with decades of time passed within their grasp. Yet in his hands, roughened by years of labor and resistance, he cradles a small beadwork medallion—a gift from his people, a reminder of the land and the legacy he fights to protect. As the first stars pierce the twilight, the scene is still, but not silent; the whispers of ancient songs seem to rise from the ground itself, weaving around him like an unseen fire. Though his body remains confined, his spirit roams far beyond these walls, soaring on the wind, carried by the hope of those who call his name in solidarity and the unbroken promise of freedom yet to come. Master work, mixed medium, fine line detail, pencil realism, high contrast light dark.
  • Upscale & Enhance: 0
  • Aspect Ratio: landscape_wide

Winter is here, and the wolves are ready

• Model: Artistic 2

• Size: 1886 X 1061 (2.00 MP)

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  • 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.
  • Upscale & Enhance: 2
  • Aspect Ratio: landscape_wide

Ода до стійкості України -- Ode to Ukraine's Resilience

• Model: FluX

• Size: 3840 X 2160 (8.29 MP)

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  • Prompt: The wind swept across the open fields, carrying with it the scent of earth and the faint echo of a distant song—a melody borne from resilience, not defeat. In the heart of a battered village, where walls were crumbled but spirits stood firm, a mother knelt to tie a scarf around her son’s neck. Her hands trembled not from fear but from the enormity of hope she placed in his eyes, so young yet fierce. Nearby, elders gathered around a weathered table, maps spread before them, their voices low but steady, each word a brick in the fortress of their resolve. Soldiers, weary but undeterred, adjusted their gear, exchanging glances that spoke of shared defiance. Above them all, the Ukrainian flag fluttered against the gray sky, its colors vibrant against the ash-stained horizon. This was not merely a place of resistance—it was a heartbeat, a testament, a promise to endure. The air itself seemed to vibrate with a single, unyielding truth: they were not fighting for survival alone; they were fighting for the right to dream of a future yet unwritten. Illustrated, mixed medium, fine detail, ink highlight, pencil realism, charcoal realism, master work.
  • Upscale & Enhance: 0
  • Aspect Ratio: landscape_wide

Ode to the Heart That Dares to Believe

• Model: AIVision

• Size: 5376 X 3024 (16.26 MP)

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  • Prompt: The campfire crackled in the stillness of the night, its golden light dancing across faces etched with tension and weariness. Around its warmth, soldiers sat shoulder to shoulder, their breaths visible in the chill air, mingling with the faint smoke that curled upward toward a sky thick with stars. Each man, woman, and soul stood on the edge of their own fears, the weight of tomorrow pressing heavy on their shoulders. Yet, as the quiet words of a leader rose above the whispers of the flames, a shift began. The words were not loud, but they carried the weight of belief—a call to dare, to dream, to resist. Eyes met across the circle, tentative but resolute, and hands tightened on one another's arms in quiet solidarity. In that moment, the fire became more than warmth—it was a symbol of their shared courage, their defiance of despair. The stars above seemed closer, brighter, as if the heavens themselves leaned in to witness their daring. Here, in the heart of their fear, they chose to believe. And with that choice, they began to rise. Illustrated, fine line detail, mixed medium, hope.
  • Upscale & Enhance: 0
  • Aspect Ratio: landscape_wide

Ode to the Courage in Shadows

• Model: AIVision

• Size: 5376 X 3024 (16.26 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt: Beneath a heavy, overcast sky, a crowd begins to form in a quiet square, their faces marked by weariness but their eyes alight with something unyielding. The air hums with an unspoken resolve, a fragile unity drawn together by shared purpose. Among them, a young woman steps forward, clutching a lantern—a small, flickering flame that casts long, wavering shadows across the gathering. Her voice, trembling but steady, carries over the murmurs: a call to stand, to hold firm, to be the light against the encroaching dark. One by one, others reach out, clasping hands, their disparate stories merging into a single, shared destiny. The lantern’s glow spreads, reflected in countless determined eyes. This is no ordinary night—it is a crucible, a moment where fear and courage collide, and the choice to fight for love, freedom, and each other becomes the greatest act of defiance. Illustrated, mixed medium, ink detail, charcoal high detail, pencil realism.
  • Upscale & Enhance: 0
  • Aspect Ratio: landscape_wide

Endless Love in a Golden Embrace - November 21, 2024

• Model: DaVinci2

• Size: 1152 X 864 (1.00 MP)

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  • Prompt: "UNSPOKEN" Happiness is sharing; quite... unspoken... moments, with you.
  • Upscale & Enhance: 0
  • Aspect Ratio: landscape