Dreaming of Atlantis


You leap awake, 


 surprised you are in a bed

 and your hands are stretched out

ready to grasp…

What is this thing you are seeking 

even in your deepest sleep?

This will o’ the wisp

that evades you,

turns the corner seconds before you,

that vanishes into the trees….

As you pad through the woken day is there a feeling tucked into the corner of you,

a shadowed one that the broom keeps slipping over,

a feeling of longing

of missing 

of listening hard for something,

a stillness under your heartbeat?

Is it a ghostly twin

that your soul searches for 

and your fancy gives a name;

a totem of a special flower or fragrance?

If I am reaching,

always reaching,

is it for a door?

A key?

The arm of my beloved?

Or is there a window I am rushing towards,

a last goodbye to call,

a last glimpse of sunrise?

Or maybe rocks to shatter across?

Am I dreaming of Atlantis

or of Valhallan Halls?

Of myself in old and new places?

I seem to miss things I cannot see or touch or name,

but they settle into my pillow and whisper 


Science would dismiss it as a subconscious twitch,

an imprint

a memory

like seashells hiding in the desert dust.

Perhaps I am like the walls in a cave with paintings masked under newer skins of stone?

If I continue reaching,

and my hands are suddenly caught and clasped,

 will they be filled with dreams?

Or is that elusive


I am searching for

something which can never be found?

If we could hold it, cup it in our hands warming and gazing unhurried,


would we evolve, would we move closer to a higher understanding?

Would we find the glittering magic we have been missing

like gilt worn away by greedy thumbs?

Or have we eaten too often on the insane root that Will crooned about…

Are we like dreams of flying which end in a bed sheet clutching crash,

for wings are fragile things and sometimes we rise,

we soar,

dipping and dancing like kites…

 But mostly the wax just melts.

Do you ever reach out in this mid space between awake and wandering too?

With your hands surprised at their emptiness  

and the blandness settling over your face like dust as you recognize the walls of daytime and hear the cursed alarm clock.

Do we dream of Atlantis?

Do we dream of Heaven?

Or is our shadow self signaling, 

trying to help our corporeal,

our burdened and earthlocked woken self

make its escape…



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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