The Bells

She delays the moment of rising

of cover throw back and movement

until she hears the church bells

ringing silver into the bland air of morning

and knows she can’t stay any longer

the dance of cold on bare floorboards and a murky mirror 

reflecting a faded room and a fading face

She knows shouldn’t be there

she knows she died once upon a time…

but there’s no where else for her to go
and the memory of the bells

even though rusted silent and green with moss

is enough keep her rising…

 
©jayetomas2014
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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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