Under The Winter Sky

The sky is winterfrosted and sharp
and as you clatter down the stone steps
something shimmering and white pulls your eyes and 
in the dusk she stands
she smiles
a smile of promise and the hunger of a thousand arctic nights and of 
of a kind
but you are hard and helpless all at once and somehow get through your maze of doors
the keys tossed in a tiny clash of metal
and the bed takes the collision in a bluish white glow of a blizzard
and the stars are cold in her eyes and they reflect the stars diamond bright against your back
and you are pierced with them 
between them
until the light grows warm
and the sheets are empty 
cooled flat by the press of unearthly flesh
and you travel the streets with no desire for the sparkling eyes
or the full 
too full
rosy cheeks pouting at you
your stuttering heart and soul are given over to the perfection of deathless ice forming on violet smudged lips
the sheen of cold marble thighs
and you smile to yourself
and the people who pass you recoil at your grin
recover and shake off their brief vision of you astride a pale horse
wearing a crown of horn  
moonblinded and mighty
and you throw your arms open to the north winds and laugh
for they are shrieking 
calling you by name
and you stand panting and reckless and waiting
under the winter sky
gazing up into the heart of the storm
your blood freezing in anticipation
into crystals for you to lay at her feet…..


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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3 Responses to Under The Winter Sky

  1. Phoenix Rainez says:

    I love your poems. You write an entire story in a few lines.

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