Amelie Ison

The silhouettes are all that remain:
There is nothing left of them
But the memories that have faded over the years.
From generation to generation,
...

I may not be your cup of tea
But I am your tenth shot of tequila.
We are made to be together
One way or another.
...

Well, all the yellow paint that you consume
Will not paint happiness inside you.
A splash of paint on your internal organs
Will not brighten up you like it brightens up your walls,
...

I watched a dog sweep across the land where no man stands;
So delicate in his every step—
He manoeuvred across it with a strange familiarity:
The mud to him was not a problem,
...

There is a crow that always follows me:
A master of shadow—
His dark black wings full of mystery and evil;
His cunning dots for eyes.
...

-To my friends (who are not poets)

How can you not be a poet?
Let me understand:
...

-For Burns

Hanging from its branches,
The tree bears them like glorious fruits—
...

-For Hades, the crow

We put you up high so the cats can't get you,
But it is futile: you will die anyway.
...

You are the Bringer Of Life:
The one who spreads the seeds of Mother Nature—
But when The Darkness beckons you to follow,
You must heed its call to die at last.
...

A poem is someone's soul on paper:
It emits a feeling,

Perhaps of great rage or warmth or sadness—
...

Our silent heroes:

The animals who served us
...

Man cannot surpass dying—
He cannot live past his own death.
Power fades and falls. Like the tide,
...

I know what they are doing,
As they carry me to the car—
I have thought many times upon this moment;
As I know you have too.
...

If I were a lamb,
I would be a favourite of the priest's.

I, being so docile and so sweet,
...

I have taken pictures
Of a perfect summer's day;
Flowers, alive and new, in spring;
An elephant, majestic and proud, staring at me.
...

There is a grave with no name
That stands lonelier still.
It has no flowers nor despairing mourners
And the grass grows thick and bushy,
...

I am seeing the snow fall from down here: in the mud.
I am watching gentle, soft snowflakes fall upon the ground—
Isn't it bizarre that something so delicate and beautiful
Would be found somewhere so barren?
...

He stands in the corner, watching me:
His eyes are red like blood
And he bears no name, rank, or identity—
His skin is faded pale
...

The screecher of the cemetery:
You fly in between the headstones
And hide away in the bell tower
When the dawn comes.
...

Let the ground have my body
So I can play hide and seek one last time.
Let the worms eat my flesh
So my death brings about something good.
...