Fade to grey my bonny child
born wrongly
into a world with no hope of sustaining
the eldritch dreams that soar and tickle through the long night time
fade to grey my bonny lass
your hope dwindling like the sandy footprints
along a seaside
damp feet faltering
as saltwaterey eyes search for a speck
a trace
of horizon visible
for just this day
to seize the chance and run into the green waters
shaking the stifling grey cloak off forever
sprint headlong into the brightness
which was your promise
until the fading came creeping
fade to grey my bonny, my captive child
for old roots will never loose on this plane
and spreading
thinning into the mist
into the ebbing light
will be your only release

*photo by eddie soloway*

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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