Dreams Are Fragile Things

reposting by request

Chimera Poetry


Harry wipes up the beer spills from the bar in the blue backlight from the TV
and waits in seismic hope to see the door swing open
dreams are fragile things
dreams are bubble things
mastering the art of art
rising on nothing but air they pop so quickly but they float so effortlessly
so addictively and seductively
some places are crammed full of the outlines of popped dreams
the air still hums with their is-it-possibles
and sitting at this bar you suddenly feel you have a story to tell
while the smoke hangs in waiting wraiths across the ceiling
and the folk surrounding lean in closer to hear
seeking the courage to bring theirs out also
like brass coins to display
here’s one I have had for a long time….
dreams are fragile things
they can love you and they can hurt you
and in the wrong hands they…

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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. Not.....me. 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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