White veils and a white room where the pianist played one finger notes
that hung trembling in the sterile air
while the silk boiled
and the white winds changed at every corner
Poor lady
sad Tanushka
little did you think that this place of blood and hard healing would be your Rai.
Later, in the house of special purpose,
the white nights and whitewash would wear you down
pare you to razor sharpness
but even that would not save you 
for you had no skill in cutting
no chance in fighting back. 
The white women circled and pressed a cold kiss to your forehead sealing
marking you for their own
while you sipped tea with delicate attention and let the steam caress your face
the only one that would be allowed that liberty
As the white nights rolled on and over like an army
leaving little trace on the frozen ground
except for the few fallen sparrows which no one counted
and some white tracks fading into slumps of ice 
in that frightened uneven air.

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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