Amaranthine; a blog of original poetry

The rain is loud now, As if a giant feet arises from the clouds To step on the river under the bridge of my heart And disturb it in such a way That the sails of ships bend, And the water touches the bridge from below, Tickling it to sorrow… The rain is loud now, But actually, it has always been like this. You were there once, And I never felt it. But now, All there is Is this sorrow That tickles me from inside, As if it wants me to laugh, Yet doesn’t let me At the same time…

 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.

 The clouds gather on the hilltop To hide a scatter of bricks Like a maple leaf placed between the thighs Of a muscular nude god... Mighty to create the universe, But not enough to clad himself. The clouds gather on the hilltop To hide a scatter of bricks; Once a castle Dark and merging in, Yet revealing itself In vengeful flashes of lightning... Once a castle Spitting out cannon balls at the river, Breaking ships And making men breathe bubbles... Now hiding, Too ashamed to show itself... Yet everyone fears it Because the clouds have hid it so well, Its fall has never been seen...

  Trees in the snow Bare, Hanging over the park benches With yellow lights on every twig, Lighting the scene for the couple Cuddling, Kissing, Holding hands. Then the lights fall to the ground As they walk... Not to guide the way, But make the world know Of this moment... That this moment Of sweetness and light Is the only moment there is... That this moment Won’t last, Like the lights themselves Which go out behind the walking duo One by one... Kissed by a quiet night And put to sleep Within blankets of snow...

  My heart had been on cloud 9, But then it crashed into lonely woods Like a biplane With its blade stuck in the ground, And its head smashed in As if stepped on by some mighty being That doesn’t care to look down… My heart lies in the lonely woods Like a biplane Overgrown with moss That has turned yellow, Red And dead; Overgrown with vines That pull down this dead metal, This log, This wingless fly Like a kraken taking down a ship With its tentacles, But slowly, Keeping it above Until its stomach rumbles On being filled With mere air.

  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…

  Striped parasols flutter on the windy beach, Guarding empty chairs against the sky; Roaring, But also grey and sunless... Is this loneliness?... Like a bottle with a letter washed ashore, And taken back Before anyone sees it .. Is this Calm?... Like a log on the river; Dead, yet never staying still, Like it’s somehow tickled by the sun… What is this feeling? Is it quiet joy, or loud sorrow? Is it nostalgia, or nothing at all? Striped parasols flutter on the windy beach, And I don’t understand what they make me feel. But it tells me to touch my heart, For there is a bloodless vein I’ve to peel…

  We are flies trapped in a cave; Crammed together in the dark, Unable to see each other, Yet living together in harmony Because we can’t see each other. We are flies trapped in a cave; Dark, With the constant sound of water Falling drop by drop Somewhere… We are flies trapped in a cave; Dark And alone, Until they arrive with ideological torches To explore the cave walls; Looking at caveman drawings And pretending to be impressed Like proper scholars… They arrive with their ideological torches And we move to kiss the light, Desperate for it After being locked in this damp hole, Where the ceiling seldom shines… We move to kiss the light And burn in it Without pain, Like we are being reborn Into a world of ecstasy, Green flowers, And endless wine… We are flies trapped in a cave; And some of us will die…

  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.

 I see silhouettes of soldiers run by Over the orange background; Burning lightly Over melting branches, And roofs kissing the earth. I see silhouettes of soldiers run by, Stepping over some blackened pot, Some, Some doll once beautiful now different With melting eyes And swirling limbs… Like a human dropped from a building, With his hands and feet in all directions… I see silhouettes of soldiers run by, And I run to join them. I see quiet kids and loud adults, I see kisses, I see veins thrown upon the windows, The iron bars, A flower still white and smiling Amid the grey wreck. I see silhouettes of soldiers run by, And I join them…

 I see a ladybug on the petal, Moving like a red old Volkswagen  On a bumpy road, Over twigs and fallen leaves Which jump onto the sides… Not out of respect Like soldiers on either sides, Bowing to the king… But to avoid being grinded under those wheels; Wheels without their rubber hoodies, Scratching the skin of the road To kill it Bit by bit… The car itself is dead; A ghost, Riding around with no driver, But only a radio in the back seat That plays the happy birthday song Everyday… I saw a ladybug on a petal, Moving like an old Volkswagen Which moves on its own Only after death…