Zoe Guillory

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.
...

Tiny, brown, innocent eyes
that have only seen the world for a year
peer over the cheep, run-down wood
as gentle, yet clumsy fingers
...

Reach out and rewind your clock before
it melts away like the flow
of crimson from a dying animal
that slowly loses its color,
...

I sit quietly under the trees, staring at my barrier of leaves.
They whisper against each other, telling me the stories
of a long-forgotten past. Of a world many generations ago,
that housed a very different people.
...

I am afraid of the Darkness and the Light,
the Eyes that lurk behind the Trees of Honesty,
waiting to catch our Mistakes.
I am afraid that the End may be near,
...

Ans so we lay there, under the dark sky, waiting
for the Sun to wake up the world. We were drifting
apart, but we still held hands and I watched the stars die
as you watched the Sun being born. And no one spoke.
...

Murky water like the thick inky blackness of a night
without stars. Without Hope. Silence pushing down.
So heavy the branches of the trees his the ground.
The leaves rotted while still green. Holding on.
...

Like tiny broken birds. Broken wings, broken hearts.
Trapped under the fallen leaves of Autumn. Cold air.
Like the dawn sky on the first morning of the new Spring.
Soft and pink. Loving, gentle. Unmistakably innocent.
...

For we have all become intruders in this place we call home.
Once a timeless Eden, a trashpile of war and lust.
Fresh waters and endless forest have all been thrown.
Thrown up in the air, only to fall. Dead leaves.
...

I sat alone, watching the children
pass by holding hands
with their parents and pointing
eagerly at the tiger.
...

She turned and drew a smiley face
in the corner of my paper. She wrote
it upside-down. It smiled up at me.
I erased it.
...

The Best Poem Of Zoe Guillory

Songs Of September

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.
And dried to brown.
Fresh earth; the bark of their mothers.
The poverty of the cities of filth.
Dried to brown and crushed like insects.
The trees were left alone.

As the squirrels scurry.
Scurry to gather their life's work
and survive through the soft snow
and the cold hard ground.

The silent crunches of dried leaves;
Death sets beneath the weight of the wind.
The heat of love had flown away
along with the songbirds that sing
to greet each perfectly new morning.

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