Red Mask


Are you sleeping are you dreaming or have you slipped sideways through a timethinned corridor
a rabbits hole
landing feet first in a place of no focus
where colors float before you
in a space without measure without angles without solidity
all you can catch and hold are her eyes
flashing darkly inside a red mask
shimmering in the lights which flash like fireflies
the music sways the room and she moves with it
gliding like a bead of oil across glass
this room this beat this strange dancing pulse
what ballroom has a capricious reality uncovered and dropped you into
when eyes meet yours over masks and are amused
you struggle to understand
senses swimming
the red mask is a lighthouse
beckoning you
but the distance never lessens and the curtains billow with the lightning and rain smell of violent winds
in a windowless room
and you turn in unsteady circles
before you sink to your knees and wait for the nightmare to end
you see once more those dark eyes framed in red
and watch them close



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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