In My Very Bones

“In the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan,
Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone;
Snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow,
In the bleak midwinter, long ago.” ~ Christina Rossetti



It’s in my very bones this coldness
the veins of me are chilled,
and I sit as close to the candle as I can 
staring at its glowing pulse.
 Pinocchio burnt his own feet off longing to be real
longing to be warm to his own touch.
But who will touch me now? 
Is there one who will find me wandering,
guide me to the hearth,
lend me a blanket and allow me to shed the internal icicles my mind has clothed me in?
Or will I continue this madness dance, this solitary minuet,
alone with the shades.
Once my spirit took wing suddenly
soared briefly toward the sun
but collided like a bird against a window 
and fell back stunned, scraped and aching…
I scratch at the forming scars until they bleed thinking to reach and release this 
this frigid specter that stitches me up in garments of lamentation and near death frost.
But I remain both here and not here 
a reflection of myself in a pale cool pool.
One who wanders searching out the light and gazing with hungry eyes at chimney smoke curling like a beckoning finger.
Now praying that even this small candle could break the spell
unbind this coldness
and bring me into fire
if that’s what it takes to melt this iron heart
this coffin of ice.
To crack the very bones and offer up my marrow as a melting comforter,
a coating of wax to keep the drafts from reaching in,
and dragging me back.
To sit captive,
 shivering, the frost slowly spreading in a graceless pirouette
 into my very bones.



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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4 Responses to In My Very Bones

  1. ejfrostuk says:

    Hey! I’ve nominated you for the Very Inspiring Blog Award and Nominations. Please take a look and consider nominating your own slate of inspiring blogs!

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