“There are things known and there are things unknown, and in between are the doors of perception.”~ Aldous Huxley

The water was endless and she cleaved through it with practiced movements
flipping over to gaze at the dome of the sky
the clouds in their everchanging shapes undulating
dripping their shadows across her damp face
and she lifted a hand in greeting
as if acknowledging a friend
wondering what it felt like to be high and to ride the wind…

The air above the clouds was full of light and the windcurrents of hot and cold
met and danced
and the sky opened back and back
unfolding the heavens
she hung over the side and gazed at the swelling and roll of the waves
squinting against the diamond spray
and wondered what water felt like
as it coated your body and if you bobbed like a cork or sunk like a stone
and she held her hand out before her as the wind split around it
and dreamed about the mysteries of the deep and of conquering the tides…

Deep and silent, dark as sable the tunnel cradled and surrounded her
as she poked her nose upward toward the gleaming tendrils of light
eyes tight shut against the merciless brightness which seeped
down into the cool earth
she stood in the stillness feeling the murmur of soft and growing soil
listening as the tunnellers gathered
to hear and share stories
fables about a place with no ceiling
with nothing to anchor them to ground and a glaring star which nothing on the surface could escape
and she wondered
what it was like to stand upright and alone
with nothing but emptiness stretching around and above her
and what it would be like to
see her own face…

Three separate souls reach out in curiosity and longed-for wonderment
three hearts beating out the same song
the same craving in unison
but each deaf to the rhythm of the others
like echoes bouncing off of distant cliffs
only to fade.




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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