Victor Nizovtsev2

Sinann glides through the river like a whisper
like a rumor
barely seen except as a brief glint
a glimmer
a rustle in the rushes
then all is smooth and slow moving again
her tears they say
are what overflow the banks
tears shed long ago
over the offense she paid Connla that fateful day
and no amount of propitiation will suffice
watery is her world now
her pulse a current
the scent of salmon on her tongue as she moves rippling along the bottom
scudding like a mollusk
the treading of dirt roads and the feel of the sun tightening and drying the sweat on her brow has long been forgotten
that and much more
oft times memories fade
yet sometimes they are erased
the triad of wisdom had its hefty price
as she sank in her belling skirts it found recompense
and in her cold embrace
her riverdank kiss she seeks to share the burden
although she cannot seem to remember what it is
it floats along with her

*artwork by victor nizovtsev*

 (written in honor of St Patricks Day)


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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