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Amyranth Harkness Poem
In a field vaguely lit by summer moon,
of dark blue pierced with light,
her sweet madness nearly drove him to his.
Beautiful as freshly fallen winter snow,
lit by starlight and sorrow,
he sings to her to assuage his own pain.
His songs are of summer evenings,
dark flowers,
worlds they'd journeyed,
the things he had seen.
His murmured ballad brings tears to dark conquering eyes,
voice sighing around her.
He longs for the time she melted into him,
changing his life forever.
In the snow of rose petals,
he weeps on her shoulder and sings.
She hums along,
the story so familiar to her.
She would remember little of the golden stars,
he knew,
even less of the unfathomable space and time.
He had seen eternal tempests,
devouring the yellow-gold of suns,
heartbreaking dawns of pearl and sapphire.
He had lost everything and nothing,
yet the thing that rent his life in half,
sat quietly now,
leaning against him and listening to his song.
Crying for things she could not remember.
Copyright © Amyranth Harkness | Year Posted 2010
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Amyranth Harkness Poem
Its the silence I am surrounded by,
a hundred people,
waiting patiently to die.
Their little rooms of beds,
neat little rooms,
colors full of life,
so contradictory to the reality.
Silence now as they sleep,
one day bleeding into another.
Do they even realize death approaches?
We fill their days with pain meds,
and children's games.
We fill their heads with love,
and hope wasted.
Silence is our only real offering of comfort.
To be the onlookers to aging,
we feel gifted.
We are given a glimpse into our futures,
laying in a cold bed,
a room filled with colors and death,
wondering, if we can, when the last exhalation will come.
Now sitting here in the dark, early morning,
I fail to see the beauty and hope in this scene.
I see reality in this old flickering tube lighting,
I see the aseptic, clinical side of death.
And for all the lies I tell them,
for all the false hope I bring,
for all the bright, unnatural smiles I give,
I am sorry.
I see reality here in my dark hallway,
listening to a hundred dying breaths.
I am a witness to death.
And I thank God I am on this side.
Copyright © Amyranth Harkness | Year Posted 2010
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Amyranth Harkness Poem
I've buried you under layers of sand and memories.
A life so busy,
I don't have time for you anymore.
To take time out of my life to put pen to page,
it seems ridiculous.
Everything has changed but you.
Is it that I can't be free of you?
That you are unable to change?
Would that I could rip you out of me,
finally be free of the verse and prose.
Would that I could take a knife to you,
to end the eternal monologue in lyric in my head.
Why can't you understand that not everything needs be written?
In the past I indulged you to excess,
let you free to fly across the page.
Now you plague me with your insistence.
Rusty and unused as you are,
I take you out once,
and again you rattle in your cage.
You vile artistry,
you detestable curse.
I simply don't have time for you,
in this new and rushing earth of mine.
Yet as subtle as the lily incense I set to burn,
you tap against my skull.
waiting again for me to set you to page.
Copyright © Amyranth Harkness | Year Posted 2010
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Amyranth Harkness Poem
Flowers drawn in blood and ink,
littering the floor like sand.
Window lit with summer moon,
showing my failures and faults.
I smear my flowers across the linoleum with stained hand,
withered from the pale light.
I have seen the maelstroms,
thick with alcohol lightning.
I know the skies,
with their archipelagos of stars.
It has all brought sweet madness,
violet and lilac rainbows.
Lifting my dreamy eyes towards the ceiling,
I surrender to the tempest I only imagined.
Copyright © Amyranth Harkness | Year Posted 2010
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Amyranth Harkness Poem
A shadow on the wall,
my imagination,
or something real?
A flicker in the candlelight,
a demon,
or angel?
You've so confused me with wrong and right,
I can no longer discern the light and the dark,
You've upended my world.
Your touch is a damnable thing,
feather light on my cheek.
How you make me hate myself,
for embraces in the dark.
My skin still stinks of you,
your sweat and love.
As you stand at the foot of my bed,
I can imagine your slim form with wings,
spread in your triumph over me.
If only I could take your feathers away,
my angel,
my demon,
perhaps you would stay away,
no longer able to fly into my life,
corrupting my dreams.
Maybe when daylight breaks,
I will be able to see the color of your wings.
Copyright © Amyranth Harkness | Year Posted 2010
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