First Blood


I feel you before I see you
the weight of your gaze pressing on me from
across the street
surrounded by scurrying people who have no idea
of the battle raging right in front of them
my eyes look anywhere but at you
my heart stuttering in nervous shame
first blood has already been drawn
by words and deed instead of a sword
and my betrayal of you
has come with a price much higher than I was willing to pay
foolish tongue and greedy ego
cracked the foundation stone
although another hand wielded the killing blow
the mallet was mine.
You finally turn away and my eyes can safely follow you
in sorrow
in hurt
in horror of what I have unleashed
and a dreadful wishing that time could be refolded
like a parchment swan


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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