Zoe Guillory Poems

The leaves faded to orange.
Dappled light at sunset; a spiritual balance.
The fire of Death as is licks up the green.
Faded to orange and fell like hanged men.
...

So I was left along,
waking from a forced sleep,
my head resting on a pillow of leaves.
Brown leaves that had dried weeks ago.
...

In the early morning, she is lying on the floor. He kneels and whispers, 'I love you.' And whishes he was sorry. He doesn't want to move, so he stays, dreaming about what they could have had if she would have only listened to him. He shakes his head, floating between dreaming and waking, knowing that they're coming to take him away from her forever.

He stares down at her. She is pale and covered with blood and bruises. She doesn't look like a real person. Everything seems strange, like a dream. Like a nightmare in which you lose everything. Light shines through the bloody windows, like an enchanted forest, the dappled shadow of the red leaves rippled on her silent body. He peers through the door, waiting, and thinking of years ago when he first met her. First loved her. First controled her. But years is only the day before yesterday. He is still trying to believe that they will never take her body. but the house is cracking open, because last night, he made her perfect. He made her his.
...

Three small children played under the trees,
giggling as the crimson leaves
floated down onto their soft, innocent hands.
They ran about after eacher other
...

I am from paintbrushes,
spilled out chaotically on the kitchen table
like dry leaves lying in the coulee.
I am from gathered dust
...

A puppy- smaller than a man's palm- cries
for its mother. Too young for open eyes.
Its legs barely move. But its hunger hurts.
It crawls in circles on weak paws; whimpers
...

But I am a stranger to Silence.
The train passes by, small hands
and faces pressed against the windows.
Watching the station zoom by. Eager.
...

I am lost, exploring Wonderland in fear.
They speak in circles around me;
colors turn to sounds.
Paths among the endless trees
...

I was born at a drumbeat,
the blare of a trumpet.
A homecoming parade
to mark my arrival.
...

A house for the dead who are not dead.
A cage, a prison where you hold your abusers.
Beautiful on the outside. Inviting.
Like a mansion, welcoming and decorated.
...