“The lunatic, the lover, and the poet / Are of imagination all compact.”                ~ A Midsummer Night’s Dream


Lunatic lovers walk together under a crooning moon
with the music in their heads eclipsing the noise of the traffic
and bird song spooling overhead into poetry 
which they chased and caught like ribbons 
I am the music he said and you must play the muse
as we raise our wine glasses high and toast to beauty so perfect
so lethal
that it sinks into your heart like a dagger
for what is more perfect than death
and she smiled coolly and spun dancing away 
a different muses fire kindling in her heart 
and the slick taste of madness on her lips
  and drank deep to his toast 
down to the thick and bitter dregs
and left him lying in all his desired perfection
in the light of the crooning moon
her tears and laughter mingling with the noise of the traffic
her fingers fluttering like moths
 as she shook the ribbons from her hands…

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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