Broken Doll

 

I’m still waiting for the freedom, the rush of pleasure as my wings unfurl
taking flight and wind lifting me
I’m still waiting to be above and above and higher above
pain getting smaller while I rise finally disappearing as the mist thickens, cloaking, opening up to the limitless sky above
the bridal dress of finest lace has started to unravel and pinch
the doll they dressed and arranged so carefully
now put aside gathering dust and grit
limbs slumping gracelessly and spirit drawing tighter smaller hiding within itself
this was to be my moment
the chains unlocked links sliding open and dropping with a clatter
signifying the terms of bondage fulfilled
you were to be my liberation
instead another, crueler, jailer surfaced
the contract, with its terms so carefully unexplained
has been carved up
torn and soaked with overturned ink
or tears
I find myself still staring dumbly at the sky
feeling the aching unending pain where my wings have been torn out
listening for a song drifting down on a breeze
to know someone somewhere has finally flown free

 

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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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