Amaranthine; a blog of original poetry

  The fires have ceased And we refused to burn in them Although we are paper men, And paper women; Blank and uninteresting, Waiting for our children To beautify us With smiles, Half bitten toys And color pencils, Until they lose their colors And become paper men And paper women; Blank and uninteresting, Yet refusing to burn in the fire, Even having the might to walk through it Like a lion on the hunt With that careful, attentive glow That notices without effort… The fires have ceased And we refused to burn in them Although we are paper men, And paper women; Blank and uninteresting…

 I see a tree among the hills With black leaves And contorted branches, Like it grew out of some one-eyed black cat Buried by some witch For some failed ritual, Abandoned there… I see a tree among the hills, With veins creeping up from the roots, Wrapped around holes and turns In the wood; Veins carrying black blood, Pulsating, The sun’s silver glow on it Shifting As it coils around Tighter And tighter Until the branches tremble And the leaves move on their own… I see a tree among the hills And I fling a piece of rock at it, Causing a monstrous silence, As if the land had swallowed the ocean To kill it’s rumbling tides… There was a monstrous silence After which the veins turn to dust, And the leaves fly away

  I leave Dragging this anchor tied to my feet; A weight of expectations And sudden loneliness… I leave Dragging this anchor tied to my feet; This thing made of rotting iron, Been in the sea for too long; So long That it has been wrinkled And crushed Like a raisin out of water… Not necessarily alive, Yet not necessarily dead… A piece of rotting iron That defies classification… All I know Is that it has weight; The burden of love, The shackle of memories… Blue veins void of blood and soul; Merely existing as hollow paths, Waiting for something to fill it up… It no longer cares Whether it’s love Or memories. It no longer cares Whether it’s a brotherly hug, A kiss from my beloved, Mom’s tears, Or dad’s hopes… All it desires is to be filled. And I hope to find stuff To fill it with…

  They tear us apart And throw us onto the cardboard frame of history, Where we stick together In ways that do not make sense. They tear us apart And throw us onto the cardboard frame of history, Making a collage Where we do not realize That we are important. But those fingers; Those tyrannical fingers that tore us apart Sees us all together, Only significant together, As we create this beauty; A piece of art That is meant to be felt, But not explained… A piece of art That leave our enemies speechless, Because there truly is nothing to be said About us… We are random, But the dumb find us beautiful, And the smart find in us many meanings That we did not create…

  The sky glitters Like a weeping face hidden in blue light, Breathing like a wolf who’s been shot; Lying there With blackening eyes And twitching feet In a pool of crimson blood Expanding out To engulf all the land… The blood touches their feet; They who bit him by neck And threw him out of the pack. The blood touches their feet, And they hurry To see him lying there With blackening eyes And twitching feet… About to stop twitching soon… The pack closes in; Their jaws dripping. We don’t know what happens next… The sky still glitters Like a weeping face hidden in blue light.