The City of Synapses

“There are no rules of architecture for a castle in the clouds.”  ~ G.K. Chesterton

My thoughts move together,
clap hands and promenade,
in an unpredictable production.
The setting alternates at whim
opulent and computerized and groaning with extras
and then,
 in the blink of an unseen eye,
there is only a barren stage;
a single lonely light bulb and a broken milk crate.
Thoughts blossom and burst and run pelting for the exits
and are chased on their swift lizard feet into corners 
and gathered into fantastical bouquets of chameleons
that flip through color changes like a short circuiting mood ring.
I wonder at the traffic encased in my woolly hat as I make my way down a city sidewalk
and I wonder how many changes of scenery each passerby carries within them, 
their placid faces belying the stormy seas and ship of dreams,
or of fools,
sailing inside. 
Our thought are like a city of clouds
skyscrapers of disappearing ink
a bridge built of sighs
and we compose
we fashion
we grow
 these complex structures without ever meeting the architect face to face,
those blueprints rolled and stored away in the deeply hidden vaults of the elan vital.
This city of synapses and worlds within worlds….
Look closely;
my calm face and eyes give you no hint of the chaos I am master of.
In this secret city
in this magic I have created, birthed and nurtured from impossible seeds,
I am the lone Adept. 
Only here,
in my poetry,
does the scope and grandeur of my hidden world seep through.
Only here can the combined light from a sunrise production,
both the grotesque and the heartstoppingly beautiful, 
be seen…..

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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