Amaranthine; a blog of original poetry

  I go down... My face melting into itself Like being punched in slow motion. I go down... Moving without action, Screaming without sound... Not even allowed to curse myself As the words get stuck in the many bubbles Which pop out of existence. I go down... Slowly. Now time moves through me, Not the other way around. I go down And hit a rusting anchor With a rusting chain Covered in algae and sucking fish. I stop Spitting out bubbles As it is a language only I understand. I stop spitting out bubbles And become one with the rocks, The anchor, The anemone dancing to remind us That there is a music to all this We cannot hear.

 Lying down with you, Being warmed in the eye by your breath, Looking at your lips while you talk; Seeing the movement But hearing no sound. Lying down with you, Drowning in the curls of your hair; As wild as the thorny bush Keeping a beautiful flower caged within For it, And only it to enjoy. Lying down with you... Talking.. Blushing.. Turning around... The morning sun looks to destroy the privacy. Well... Flowers do die And bushes do get burned. Lying down with you gladly... Yet realizing This is not forever...

The dry grass rustling left and right, The tree in the centre, And a blushing cloud Gently wobbling down over the world Like a huge blanket... Making the leaf-children quiet, Putting the lioness to sleep Beneath the tree... Her ears shaking away a fly Once in a while... More flies gather on the wound on her side.. Rising and falling with every breath. More flies gather on the wound on her side.. And there’s no way to chase them away. She lies there Turning orange with the sky... A loud silence That speaks much. I look at the face and see the pride; The gravity of expression, The warrior-ness. I look at the face And see the eyes gently close... And the wound on the side Stops moving. Now there is gravity of expression, Warrior-ness, And eternal sleep...

  I called your name And you smiled; Radiant... Like warm rays dancing on lapping waves, Bubbles rising up in a glass of champagne, Cobwebs by the window Shaking gently... About to break but never breaking. The violins play... The feet hit the dance floor... Roses in the air, The smell of coffee... We hold each other And spin... Hitting the tables and other people... Going way out of the dance floor; Our feet faltering... Imperfect beings entangled in movement So imperfect, Yet so divine... Pure... Warm as a hug, Sleek as a wet lip, Trembling slightly like a teary eye.

  He’s a Knight Riding an injured horse Through woods and villages, With his sword held high; A head on it Coming down from the tip... Cutting deep with every gallop; Eyeless, Open-mouthed, Smelling of black blood; A waxy solid that flows And hangs under the chin, Moving right and left, But refusing to hit the ground... Much like the man before he was killed... Refusing to fall and live... Choosing to fight and die. He’s a Knight Riding his injured horse Which finally stops And endures the beating rather than move. The horse stops And the blood that survived all the galloping Drip to the white flowers below; Alive again...

  You’re a drawing on the Chapel window Of baby Jesus Kicking his glad feet.. Surrounded by Kings and shepherds.. And I, a drawing close by Of Jesus on the cross Surrounded by soldiers and blood.. And John and Mary. The sunlight hits you first every morning, Making the stable bright and awake... And the infant’s giggle so loud That a man praying alone can hear it. Then the sunlight hits me, And makes the dark skies darker. Then the sunlight hits me And makes every wound on Christ bright and painful. They hear his cry too... But not only for the man praying alone. His cry is heard During the loud mass...through the emotions And the choir music. His cry is heard Beyond the hills Busy making love with the morning mist. His cry is heard By the beggar, The busy men in suits, The child who lost his paper boat in the rain, The prostitute. His cry is heard By those having no time to listen to anything else But their own pain...

 I watch rain roll down the cafe window, Mixing it with the purple neon And the lights of cars dashing by... Making it a colourful pallet Used to the extreme By an eccentric artist To get out all colours and all shades For his work. The pallet is here.. The painting is missing. But I look around and soon find it There itself. The colours fall in And flow on the walls and the ceiling... And we... Our hands and our faces... All nauseating with colour. It evokes the same awe Of looking at an aquarium as a child... Moved to awe at a giant shark... So might, Yet so quietly going about. I watch rain roll down the cafe window, Mixing it with the purple neon And the lights of cars dashing by...

  Sitting under a tree in the fall With a book... The birds sing random notes; Chaotic yet sweet... Like that jazz at the bar Coming from a sombre pianist Hiding in the shadows Who is most noticed when he stops playing. Sitting under a tree in the fall With a book... And an apple in my sweater I take a bite; Ever sweet, Ever sweet... And a wrinkled leaf falls to the page, Writhing in agony at the wind, Yet refusing to fly away... For it, The sun and the seasons were enough. For it, Earth was heaven itself.... Sitting under a tree in the fall With a book... Thinking of everything Except of reading the book.

  I see purple flowers grow against yellow walls And admire the sense nature has. I see the skies bright when I’m down and out And I doubt the same. I am happiest when lightning strikes And loneliest when I’m with people. I am sweetest when I give nectar... Because it is only sweet when it is tasted. I see purple flowers grow against yellow walls And admire the sense nature has. But the flowers soon fade... And the brown facade doesn’t match the walls anymore. I matched with the landscape of the universe When I was born. Then I put on faces And faded away... All alone... No longer a part of anything.

  The golden water, Black mountains, A boat comes out from the mist afar... The oars touching the water And making it talk To get rid of this silence... The leaves are breathless, And the birds without song. The trees have light but no colour, And the boatman is all alone. The golden water, Black mountains, And stalks of grass shaking quietly... Waiting for a dragonfly that’ll never come.. The golden water, Black mountains, Red palms... And cool sand... A loving motherly warmth... The whole earth looks at us And sees our eyes glow Before it all turns dark And becomes nothing.

 The blue shutter with much graffiti, The hanging bulb dripping after the rain, The bicycle with flowers in the basket, Waiting... For the rider to hand it over To the right person; That one person who'll take a whiff And appreciate them Whether they actually have the aroma Or not. But the rider doesn’t come... And the flowers gather dew and rain. But that rider doesn’t come.. And the little aroma there was is gone. The blue shutter with much graffiti, The hanging bulb dripping after the rain, And the flowers in the bicycle... Tired of waiting... Only Waiting For death Now.

  The kitten tries to catch the dragonfly And rips the flower out instead; A petal here...a petal there.... Like samurai down on the battlefield With their colourful armours... A bloody hand going for a sword, Weary feet trying to stand. Dusk arrives And their armours are no longer colourful. Dusk arrives And the wind stops blowing... The petals face down; Brown, And shrinking into itself like burning paper. The kitten tries to catch the dragonfly And rips the flower out instead. But it doesn’t care... And keeps going behind the dragonfly That it will never catch.

 The sea dashes in like a net being cast on the sand. The sea leaves like a hand with many fingers Of different lengths, Trying to grab hold of the earth And climb onto land. The organisms have evolved.. But the water remains in the sea... The hand forever trying; Having bubbles: Blisters after all these years... Trying... Failing... The sea tries to climb onto land And devours the rocks, The sand, Those holes dug by crabs. The sea tries to climb onto land And ultimately Succeeds... Without it even knowing. The sea now looks around And finds itself alone With no shore to embrace it. The sea now looks around... ....lost land... ...lost identity...

  He runs to that thing Like a zebra Going to drink from a Savannah lake; Murky water with twigs and leaves And frequent bubbles, And the croc from which he escapes... No troubles... Once more. But he taunts it Like swishing paper over a lighter; Heating up But never burning. He taunts it As if it's an old battle tank with legs, Rusting away Into even duller colours. He taunts it Until the jaw snaps more than just a chunk of air, And the water turns even murkier, And a head alone floats... Sinking slowly.. Quiet, Yet screaming.

  It's January I dream of green clouds Yellow ducks on ponds And pots with dying flowers once beautiful I dream of my brother smoking  Throwing out his cigarette wet in rain He isn’t there And I wake up to the curtains licking the heavy air The skies cry And ravens look down upon the world To find the dead and less alive to yell at It's January The fishes land from skies And birds come out of water covered in oil We don’t see it struggle because we only go to beaches From where we have chased them away There are caves with emeralds Guarded by bats hanging like they were hung Legally We have found these caves And these emeralds But we are still in those caves With the emeralds Where they are worth no more than any two rocks which could start a fire Getting there was tough enough With trees with roots sticking out just to trip the courageous And to trip courage itself But our blood has become part of the earth And we've reached But there are more than caves There are graves t...

 The butterfly lands on the ash; Orange and with a hole in its wings. The snake crawls in and out of skulls; Buried... broken... both. Someone comes walking; His feet touching the fire beneath the ash... Ever violent... Ever singing... The flames jumping up like dancers With limbs and expressive faces; Holding hands.. One throwing another into the air In sheer delight When all around.... The butterfly lands on the ash; Orange and with a hole in its wings. The snake crawls in and out of skulls; Buried... broken... both.

 I’m a torch Fallen into the sea; The water taking time to recollect its shape.. Like a pillow being softly punched. I'm a torch Fallen into the sea; The light blinking wildly... Unable to breathe.. Then I get swallowed by a jellyfish And stop blinking; Stuck in water within water... Yet drowning not. I light him up And the blind jelly can now see The rocks, The anemones, The sunk ship with buried boots And skeletons caught in nets Still screaming... And then I die And the jelly is forever stuck in darkness... Within the ship... Not able to see a way out.

  Returning home after a tiring day; The drizzling, The disorienting neon lights, The drivers who shout from their cars When I cross the road without caring. There isn’t anywhere to go to But home. There isn’t anything to lose But my life... The dudes smoke weed on tin barrels with spray paint... The girls don’t smile anymore... There is a glow in the eyes of a child Passing by... Wild yet dead Like the eyes of a tuna on the weighing scale About to be cut and packed. Returning home after a tiring day; The drizzle becomes rain. I see people run... Yet the world slows down To make me look again At the smoking dudes, The girls who do not smile, The children void inside. The world slows down To put me in pain.