Red Song

red planet

the red bird sang to me
a song of death and blood and crimson sands
when the mountains vibrated with the sighing of an unnamed wind
bringing hot scents of gold and scarlet spices
the red bird sang of battles and long-dry rivers
of setting suns
and the sad, aimless wandering of the last
doomed to fall alone.
a strange moon rises and the red bird finishes his song
the last notes lingering
as the shadows of the mountains
deepen and close around.

 

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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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