Leaving Eden


“Like the sword whose fire dried the tears in the desolate eyes of eve….”                        ~ W. Somerset Maugham

She turned to go, the last corner swept
the last carton taped and carried out
her footsteps echoing weirdly through each room she stepped
trying to hold the space and touch of each place, each memory
to imprint on the walls something of herself
was she supposed to feel more?
regret, love, longing
all she felt was emptied
she had reached beyond herself
to reinvent
and stretched out touching just a fingertip to something glittering
what she was promised was hers for the asking
was owed….
and then like a lightbulb exploding
it shattered in her face
and the voice which hissingly told her
you could be like her…you deserve more…live forever beautiful…all you need is one bite
laughed through its plastic smile
and ran away
she had taken the forbidden
fruit and ate
enjoying the moment
of being unchained, larger than life
a rebel
worthy of the adoration in the eyes she expected to find
turned to her in yearning and admiration and want
freed from the bucket and mop and crowded commute to a greige desk
until she stumbled
and fell
drunk and sickened on the whispered words that had flashed like neon
cheap and puffed and plump with insidious venom
and empty
because Eden is just a ruined garden
an overgrown parking lot
and everything plastic will crack eventually
she turned to go.
she winced as the door closed.




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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