Amaranthine; a blog of original poetry

 The days float quietly Like a bubble on a cup of coffee, Going round and round With the entire ceiling reflected on in; A ceiling that’s cracked And lacking paint here and there As if covered by blisters That never seem to heal… Blisters inflicted By age and moss, That expand… With the paint falling off But by bit. One day a scratch of paint will fall into the cup And pop the bubble, Making the tea forget All that it saw of the ceiling… Making the tea forget That it itself exists…

  Life is a crab walking sideways, A cat peeping through a blanket, An old man on the street with holes in his shoe, Strumming away at the guitar, Singing In a voice as raw as life itself; As real as a shattering bottle, Piano blues, Or a burned palm… Life is an old man on the street with holes in his shoe, Lying on a park bench, Gesturing with his arms, With a bottle of beer, Talking to the stars lying around Like a bottle shattered during a bar fight, Glistening and sharp… Captivating Until you step on it.

  We sit together Like peaches in a bowl Staring at the blue ceiling With a fan hanging by the wire Going creak…creak….creak… We sit together Like peaches in a bowl; Smelling of breeze, And glistening like bald heads, Like stepped on light bulbs, Like tears shed on good Friday By the good Christian; Not tears of joy… Not tears of sorrow either… Just a glistening, A glow, A heart hanging heavy over the shivering soul Like a wet drape… Slowly drying. We sit together Like peaches in a bowl Staring at the ceiling With a fan hanging by the wire Going creak…creak…thud…

  Blue windows open on yellow walls Like eyes which couldn’t sleep Due to the stench of the gutters, The loud clubs, The streetlights, The constant tickling of wet brown leaves From the wild trees That struggle to show That they are still alive. Blue windows open on yellow walls Like eyes that see and show At the same time This state of the world Where everyone has enough; Just enough wine to dilute a sorrow, Just enough cigars to burn a leach off of one’s heart, Just enough pills to put one into a trance Which one may Or may not awake from… More blue windows open on yellow walls Like eyes that couldn’t sleep…

 I fall onto the bed and keep falling Into a hole surrounded by lights Flickering, Swirling, Going out. I fall onto the bed And fall into a dark place; A place where I search for walls but do not find any, A place that smells like rusted nails Waiting to puncture my feet. There is no sound, No distraction, No floor, No ceiling. Yet I struggle to move; Like a pixel of colour stuck amid television static. I struggle to move Like a flower grown in a void bulb... Touching the bulb and growing back downwards. I fall onto the bed and keep falling Into a hole surrounded by lights Flickering, Swirling, Going out...

  The fingers wrinkle, The grape shrinks, The chapels and palace domes turn green And kiss the earth. The building's in pain. But the bricks triumph with joy as they meet what they're made of. The fingers wrinkle, The grape shrinks, And the rocks move out of the way as the stream widens. The water doesn’t change. But the water will have less stones it can punch at. The water will be free to flow And free to flood. The fingers wrinkle, The grape shrinks, The chapels and palace domes turn green And kiss the earth.