Brush Away

146 brushes fascination station

it settles slowly
without notice at first
the dust of the haughty, of innuendo
of superior criticism and insidious gossip
disparagement
brush it
brush away…
yet the barbs stick tight and cling
layering into a greasy covering
coating, choking, subduing
an emerging spirit building up dreams in fragile sand and feathers
soundless weeping as they are trampled carelessly underfoot for the
minor elevation such malice affords
the fleeting triumph of the crabbed and petty
brush away
brush away, it’s merely dust
let it drift
leave it behind you as you walk deliberately
away…

 

*photo found posted on FASCINATION STATION (fb)*

 
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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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