I pull the darkness from the air
feeling it sink into my skin
my blood
swirling as ink through my veins
surfacing in the patterns and runes and markings
that my yearning called from the other planes
the other levels
the unseen
the unknown
the deliberately unremembered
tattoos rise in beaded symbols of power and love and loss
of belief
a call across obscured spaces
and times
calling to some not awakened yet
and to those who have slept forgotten for long years
I am a living archive, a breathing record of my tale
it is not enough to tell my story
I want to become
I need to become
my story
expanding with dark ink and consciousness risen
like a tidal wave, I pull more
and I rise, imprinted
still calling
unfolding into all I am
and will be
knowing not how it ends
or what transformation this journal will require
but for now
the writing of it is sufficient
and the ink soothes and spreads deeper into
the worlds
under my skin…






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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