Amaranthine; a blog of original poetry

  There is a beast in me, Curled up into itself; Fast asleep… There is a beast in me; A giant moving in soft steps, Shaking off dragonflies from the grass… A sparkling thing of melancholy, Like a bluebird on a rusted gate Singing at the setting sun Like the band on the Titanic Slowly going down… The sun goes down, Turning the grass black, And the pink flowers red, And the water a sparkling confusing mess… There is a beast in me, Curled up into itself; Sleeping to the song in heart Created by the breeze Blowing through its ventricles…

  Dew on the belly button of an apple, The cackling birds, The whiff of worms and fresh grass; The sun rises to see a sparkling world… A world of crackers, Glaciers, and a glass of yellow wine Left at the table With no lip imprinting its mouth, Listening to the violins, The customers And the rain… Forever lost in noise, Forever hidden in noise, Forever hidden away… Only to be discovered that night By a waiter Who pours it to the sink; Still… No lip imprinted. Dew on the belly button of an apple, The cackling birds, The whiff of worms and fresh grass; The sun rises to see a sparkling world Not realizing it is because of him…

 I have a head full of branches Shedding their leaves, Lying bare like a crack in the sunrise… I have a head full of branches Quiet with raven in the day, Noisy with bats by night, Encircling and bumping into each other As the sky roars in blue light; A light that smells of smoke And electrocuted flesh… Lying in the twigs, Moving in a puddle of worms All sliding over each other Like one body; Like one resurrected mummy Trying to break out of its bandages… I have a head full of branches Shedding their leaves, Lying bare like a crack in the sunrise…

  The day sleeps Like a fawn amid the flowers All curled up; A twitching ear, Eyeballs rolling underneath, Lying on the wet grass That glistens like water in a bucket Witnessing the sunset… The grass the glistens Like an infant Opening it’s eyes For the first time… The day sleeps Like a fawn amid the flowers, Not concerned About the absence of its own mother… Not concerned About the limp on its hinds, Or its loud snore… Not concerned About the lioness who watches, Hidden in the wheatish grass; Its claws awake, And it’s back stretched like a bow Ready to shoot forward…

 There is a heart shaped hole in my chest Leaving a gap in my shadow, Ever letting it express itself In its complete darkness. There is a heart shaped hole in my chest Which longs to be filled; Weeping softly Like water in the half buried bottle on the beach, Glistening silver and blue… Like a bar with many glasses But no wine. There is a heart shaped hole in my chest That stays where my heart once was. They wonder how I’m alive still. What they do not feel Is the pulse that radiates from this void; A pulse not loud like the heart, But is eternal… Keeping me alive forever, Leaving me to wander these arid lands Incomplete…

  You are an old chapel With empty benches, A monstrous calm, And stretched windows; Windows with somber images Made bright By the sun that shines through… The sun That tries to highlight everything, Even if it means to highlight sorrow. You are an old chapel Growing prettier As the candles stay unlit, As the marble pillars lose all its glow; (Once laughing Like an infant’s glowing eye), As a window with the image of Peter Gets shattered by a cricket ball… This is a beautiful place Even if it changes. This is where the monstrous silence lives Through the changes…

  The moon hovers over the black water, Rising against the cold wind That speaks in the language Of naked branches, Crying infants, And wings of skin… The moon hovers over the black water, Proud of the white line it draws over it; A line that makes us see the water dance Gently To the breeze we cannot feel, When all around is uniform darkness… Making the alive a part of the dead. The moon hovers over the black water, And keeps rising And rising… Until the line widens To swallow the entire sea, And the mountains, And the last flower on that leafless branch… The moon keeps rising Until it gives its feeble light To all…

  The tree becomes a silhouette, A leafless entity Seemingly dead… But from there all the noise comes, For it is there  That the wind blows most… It is there That the wind moans in comfort As the many bare fingers Massage it’s body; Weary after travelling; Hitting dead ends, Windshields, Those trees with leaves That provide nothing in return. The tree becomes a silhouette, And a standing piece of dead wood… But now, It’s do much alive. Because now, It’s so much useful…

  You’re a van Gogh painting; Confusing in proximity, Pretty from afar… Like the sun throwing black light On blue flowers; Flowers that adore you, But cannot decorate your hair; Flowers that want to be plucked And add to your breath and beauty; Flowers that long to belong Away from each other… Stuck in the same field Shoulder to shoulder. You’re a van Gogh painting; Confusing in proximity, Pretty from afar… With a red scar there on the cheek; Probably a slash of blood From a decapitated ear… An ear now free, But more freed by death than life…