The foulest hearts
can walk freely under the sun
surrounded in their glamour like a beautiful gift
when unwrapped is found to be full of rot.
the sable wolf prowls through the deepest part of the wood
searching for prey and a way through the labyrinth
while the hawk circles overhead
blackest magic done in deepest night
the undoing of all that those on knees implore
soaked in jealous madness swollen ego
as the fallen imp whispered instruction
and the mirror was cracked
sorrow follows in the wake of the hawk even as she rises
riding on the wind
screaming in her grief
that the unbinding remains profoundest mystery
out of reach
the wolf howls out its anger at the moon
even as their hearts break in unison
and behind walls the foul one hears
and trembles
hiding his face from his own reflection



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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