The solemn woman treads lightly in a leafdark forest
the spurs of jealousy scoring her flesh and spirit
like cheap wine
metallic on the tongue
kindling an unquenchable fire in the belly
like the pomegranate she hides her jewel nature deep inside
and like the peacock she is beautiful
rich in color and majesty
but the harshness of her voice
her blistering call
betrays her overpowering
adamantine rage
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?
Chimera Poetry 