It’s gold I can feel and see first,
gold of honey and wings and delicate wax.
Feel the time and slowness and evenness of it
walls not content to merely house but curves that hum and cradle and move you along 
here now
here now
My wings
 my stripes 
my head of brass and oil and poppy.
Scents collide and cajole and mingle with the visions in my head
dreams? memories?
all soft, all fragrant
open your mouth and let your tongue weep
let it grow heavy on the sweetness…
I rise into the dawn and hold my self as tightly as I can 
as long as I can
delaying the moment of unfurling so that the pleasure is tenfold and
look now the sun is also gold
and nods to me
in this intimate fellowship
this airy worship of light we share. 
My language is my dance and my sting is not given lightly,
to sting is to die and it must be momentous
it is to mark the one stung as savior.
And the wax receives my husk
my shining emptied capsule
with love and covering ease
and builds me into the wall of memories.
I am gold.


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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