Silver Coins

I travel through this day,
counting the hours
the minutes
and all the spaces in between.
And against the background of my living is the sound, 
the faraway chink,
of silver coins dropping.
I will betray you with a kiss and never lose sleep,
while gazing at my awards and moving in circles closed tight to those who will not fall, 
will not bend.
An opulent window-dressing the only landscape I crave, to walk wrapped in neon warmth,
and if the shriveling behind my ribs twinges I can ignore it.
I have ignored much more…
All will fade and the deepest cut is the only scar that remains silver.
I count no tomorrow, 
no higher plane,
and my only steadfast companion,
the only constant,
is that faraway music of the coins.

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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