Momento Mori


an apple gloriously richly enameled red
polished to a sheen
an ornate and gilded cup with gleaming parade of fantastical creatures
a dagger hidden in swirling cloak
the time, the day, the way has no significance
you twist, you bargain
hiding your face, your gold
holding high your placards scribbled with promises of redemption
systematic list of attributes and testimonies and vows to pave the way with your good intentions
nevertheless her cold touch will seek and find and carry you
unconcerned, unmoved by your grappling
no haggling or entreaties slow the inevitable
the apple bitten
the cup is drunk, its dregs spilled,
the dagger weeps crimson tears
frost eventually touches every rose, every natural frame
to deny the withering slows it not
only man so certain of his own glory and puissance
turns blinded eyes away and seeks only that which will placate and appease….
and falls anyway
crumbling into dust…





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. 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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