My Shroud

One year ago…

Chimera Poetry

my death shroud lente scura (1)

My shroud
this shroud
this fine spun linen
wrapped around and encasing me like a second skin
no sound  no breath
no last glassblown tear
the deepness that is death settles over like smoke
I dream I drift
and the very last sip of air seeps from my lungs
and this poor body
this poor broken vessel finally yields
back back I fall
into the waters where
the ferryman already waits
his lantern glows gold and his eyes are full of living gold
and the gold reaches in and fills my senses too
I dream I drift
toward the beginning

*artwork by lente scura*

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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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