City of Plastic Sheets


Back alleys and dumpsters were the yellow brick road in her world
the place lined with brutish trees of bricks
and a sky which
at any moment
could drop a rabid flying monkey on her
she moved through them with the feral cats listening to her footsteps bouncing off the concrete
looking behind occasionally to check and make sure it was just an echo
a box and blanket at the end of the journey
to hold back the dark which wrapped like a tourniquet around the city streets
a cardboard drawbridge and magic words of grace
said for a meal not received
she seeks refuge in sleep
skittish as a small animal in a burrow
whose nose twitches even when dreaming
there are no emeralds in this city of plastic sheets
and the one who holds the hourglass
is more likely to smash it on the floor
than count the moments



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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