Break The Sky

I am wrapped in silence
in smoke and in manifest, 
arrogant secrecy.
The dark shading my vision and coating my tongue with waxy compliance,
eyes veiled and my hands gripped in place 
held fast with the strength of tree roots in splintered coldness.
And my brightness
my light
 becomes an apparition,
a brief surfacing spray of memory
a fading caress 
so promising 
so warm 
 before deepening into the escape of sleep.
Perhaps Morpheus heard my formless,
my unspoken pleas,
and graced me with a fertile fragment of illumination.
For there is something still clinging
flushed and quietly inside me,
my star still shining
but softly
learning to test the locks and chains.
Seeking out the fissures slowly expanding in the drought.
And I feel the warmth growing
gathering the strength
the courage
the right
and I will burst forth.
I will be the sun itself 
and break the very sky. 



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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