Amaranthine; a blog of original poetry

 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…