A Song of Separation


“Listen to the reed and the tale it tells,
How it sings of separation..” ~ Rumi
The Reed Flute’s Song or Mathnawi of Maulana

The fall didn’t kill her but the cold and the fright almost did

and no matter how fiercely she concentrated

her light stayed dimmed.

Blown out by the speed and the wind of her plummet,

she supposed,

her simple cupful mind only knowing the dark and the light

the black and the white

and that she was alone…

Her reed broken and singing sadly of its separation.

Why she fell was any ones guess

but her gleaming siblings glimmered at her

and sent her hope that she would join them again soon

strewn across the galaxy 

holding the blackness pinned back with points of diamond

and smiling gently as the wishes floated up and burst against them like bubbles.

She never gazed into the monsters eye, never stared into the abyss

 because she was both

and the becoming had stopped so long ago that memory couldn’t reach that far.

All was fully grown and fitted comfortably

the sharp bladed light not piercing any longer

merely surrounding and filling in the rips and tears

the gaps where the other skies spilled over….


At first she thought the earth was swelling

growing like a rampant mushroom 

but the winds moved only past,

not with her,

and down she dropped

straight like an acorn

heavy like a drop of molten solder

and the strange solidness would not yield and 

gravity then proved its existence with a 




like a quilt made of lead.

The fast fleeting winds caressed her hair once more

kissed her and said good bye.

But it was a long, aching time before she could bear to look anywhere else

but up…


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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