Cowardice or Intelligence?

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,
that icy fingers will soon wrap around me.
I am afraid that the World will keep turning,
that Life will be allowed to be lived in the Shadows.
I am afraid that nothing is real, that I am a Puppet
being watched by the Children of the Stars.
I am afraid that Life could mean Nothing,
that I am here for Nothing, and will die in Darkness
and simply become part of the Earth for the rest of Eternity.
I am afraid of being Alone in this world,
that the Sky will crash down upon me
once my misery has reached its highest point.
I am afraid of becoming the Forgotten,
of being Remembered only as a civilian passing by.
I am afraid that You are not what You seem,
that You are the Eyes that watch and wait,
hoping that I will make the Mistake.

poem by Zoe Guillory
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My Butterfly

I raised my face to the warmth.
But the sun always shines brightest
just before a storm.
And I was allowed a laugh: a single laugh-
a spark of happiness-
before the clouds moved in
and covered my only friend.
I could see a faint yellow light
shining on behind the merciless clouds.
But the rain came and washed my smile away.
And the sun was gone.
The only thing to light my path
was the lightning that threatened
my every step.
And as soon as I could see where I needed to be,
thunder clapped and threw me off my feet.
Pointed me in a new direction.
Numbed my ears
so that the only sound loud enough
for me to hear

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poem by Zoe Guillory
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I Am Imperfection

I am a shadow
and a figure in the sun.
I am nothing but the distant echo
of a fallen empire.
I am a mountain stream,
rushing to the ground.
I am a foreign book,
tattered and worn.
I am Ignorance.
I am a puppy searching for its mother,
something it will never see.
I am the full moon,
pulling out the werewolves and oceans.
I am a shattered mirror,
abandoned in the dust.
I am a burned caterpillar,
never to become a butterfly.
I am the last snowflake to melt.
I am the wind,
moving voices and people as I pass.

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poem by Zoe Guillory
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A Desparate Song

Mockingbirds are the only
birds to sing all the colors.
The most beautiful of them all
is the saddest, and she sings
her lonely song to him,
but he does not notice.
He does not realize that
they are the same.
He only has eyes
for the bluebird.
The very same bluebird
that has tortured the mockingbird
with her songs many times,
claiming to be his only love.
As the mockingbird sings
her sad songs, she is careful
not to sound like the bluebird.
She sings only to him,
only for him,
but he is the only one

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poem by Zoe Guillory
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Unfound Paradise

Though the world on the other side of the river
is peaceful, you don't take more than a glance.
You allow your emotional war to continue,
hoping that someone-anyone-will notice the pain,
but you would enver take their help.

Though the world on the other side of the river
is warm, you try desperately not to freeze.
You cuddle deeper into your corner and wait,
wait for someone to come and warm you,
but you have no desire for a true savior.

Though the world on the other side of the river
is beautiful, you still pray for the beauty of tomorrow.
You think that tomorrow will somehow carry you away
into a quiet, easy-going song that laughs a lifetime,
but you know that tomorrow is the same as today.

Though the world on the other side of the river
is unreachable, it seems that we have all tried.

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poem by Zoe Guillory
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A Place Called Eden

There was a paradise that ruled long ago.
Quiet.
Peaceful.
More beautiful than the human eye can ever perceive;
untainted by humans,
this Place called Eden.

This Garden was eternal, life-giving,
as perfect as the Heavens brought to Earth.
But along came Man,
swept in with a storm,
hiding the sun.
A pummeling rain flattened the flowers
and lightning licked at trees, destroying
this Place called Eden.

The clouds finally parted.
The sun peaked out fearfully, looking down
at Man, who stood alone.
Who felt himself powerful.

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poem by Zoe Guillory
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Where I'm From

I am from paintbrushes,
spilled out chaotically on the kitchen table
like dry leaves lying in the coulee.
I am from gathered dust
on the back of the keyboard
that was noticed,
but was never disturbed.
I am from the love-bug tree
hiding at the corner with fresh flowers
and the stout lemon tree
who took us through year after year
of fresh lemonade,
and later, cinnolade.
I am from good times, and bad times.
I am from towering bookshelves,
from drawn-out Sunday afternoons.
I am from arrogance and ignorance,
and the chaos of a family gathering.
I am from mosquito bites
that swole up and turned red.

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poem by Zoe Guillory
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Image

The girl in the mirror stared back at me.
Unflinching.
Eyes blood shot.
Cheeks stained with tears and sweat.
Her hands dangled weakly, swollen
and splattered with blood.
Matted hair sprung from her head and the black circles
made her eyes seem all the more sunken. Desperate.
She was small. Shriveled.
All hope sucked from her soul and left a scar
across her gray face like a tree branch
reaching for the sun but anchored by the abandoned
body of a young girl whose heart
had long ago stopped beating.
the fallen soldier of a country whose world
had fought against it. A country of Purity.
And this girl raised a cut and bruised arm
and lifted the mask from her face. Hesitantly.
The scars faded.
They left tiny white lines on my arms and face.

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poem by Zoe Guillory
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Self Portrait

The willow tree stands alone.
It grows alone, relying only on the Sun and the Rain.

This willow tree offers shade.
It only shades during the day, casting a monster
of a shadow in the mornings and evenings,
its size shrinking in between. Its shadow
is solid in some places, but has empty
places of sunlight dotting the ground beneath
it, allowing room for purity among the darkness.

This willow tree is immune to the Wind.
It bends whichever way it needs to survive,
sacrificing its tiny leaves to be carried away.

This willow tree is a home.
Small birds build nests on its branches,
laying eggs that will bring new Life to the World.
The nest is supported. Some things of little
weight can be supported, but anything that drags

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poem by Zoe Guillory
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A Boy at the Window

War raged on as if that was how it was meant to be.
There were no sides. You killed your allies,
or you were killed by them. Fear made us
choose the former. Tears rolled down my sweaty cheeks.
Blood stained my mud-splattered skin and clothes
and fear.
The streets smelled of Hatred. Why so much Violence?

I desperately wanted to stop and mourn
for fallen friends, but there was no time for weakness.
I had to keep moving so no one could learn my strategy,
armed only with shields for eyes and daggers for teeth
and fear.
The streets smelled of Hatred. Why so much Violence?

I marched silently. My shoes made no sound against
the pavement and my footsteps were invisible.
I thought this would protect me: not my first mistake.
As far as I would see were nothing but the aftermath
of massacres and the afterthoughts of murder

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poem by Zoe Guillory
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