the Quest

empty-bed-erik-brede

You are gone

you are gone, you have left

crossed over

taken up the challenge, the Quest

been pursued by a jealous demon

lost in an alternate universe

anything

anything but this

the banal

surrounded by the mechanized

the sterile

hospital machinery

I reinvent for you

rewrite

craft a death that would have meaning

would have been a chapter

read avidly by you

rejecting this white blankness

the hollowness

where writing is merely filled in forms

no poetry

no beauty

no mystery

and even the horror is so watered down

it’s no more than a fleeting pitiful twinge

your saga should not end cheaply

as one of a thousand trivias

I’ll rescue you from vacuity

I’ll spin the tale

pay the toll for the river crossing

and look to a glad sunrise

rejoice

through dampening eyes

as your Quest continues

 

 

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About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. Not.....me. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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