The Dreaded


A wisp
    a scent 
You turn your head, is something there?
Nothing but your imagination, 
the rational asserts robustly,
and the unsettlement caused by the lateness of the hour
the creaking of the roof
the halting…steps…..?
a wisp
    a scent
a fragrance borne upon the drafts of cold air seeping through the chinks
the unguarded
 the places no longer blocked by the stiffening of your neck
Enter the dreaded
while your mind trips over itself to win the race
and reassure
smooth your muscles locked into ironwood
calm screaming nerves as denial pours patronizing honey to slow its grappling hooks flung at your skin
a wisp
   a scent
The dreaded is with you
upon you
or unadmitted
and very hungry…
as cold tears trail down your spine  
maybe if you don’t look
if you appear placid and unconcerned 
if you can uncurl your white knuckles
unclench your abdomen
maybe it will go
or maybe
it never will
because it has never really left you.
Perhaps the dreaded has been invited…
or perhaps 
it is home.

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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