I stand under the tree and take great handfuls of lilac in my hands and crush them until the scent fills my head
and I’m woozy
with bits of mangled flower sticking to my arms I breathe in
their humid perfume
and the faded summer memories come rushing back
and I remember how you looked when I cracked your heart in two with
one swift hit
like an egg against a bowl
you never saw it coming and I never looked back
I wonder now
why you being kind and gentle made it so easy to discount you
and I wonder at the surprising razor misery that sliced me
when I finally realised I was alone
and old and unlovable
The smells and sounds of that summer are long gone now
chased away like a junkyard dog
and I’m here with nothing except my regrets
and time
hanging heavily on my hands like the crushed lilac



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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2 Responses to Lilac

  1. chimerapoet says:

    Reblogged this on Chimera Poetry and commented:

    One year ago…

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