Angel Eyes

No matter where I am
what time
what space
I am always aware of their eyes.
angel eyes follow me,
observing and noting,
and I didn’t understand when I was little
that this wasn’t how every person lived
and puzzled over the laughter
when I mentioned my “guides”
or “the keepers”.
Imaginary friends! the older ones laughed
and the pat on my head was a subtly proud one
as if my imagination was a prodigy.
But I knew they were real,
I knew they were there,
and we would always be together in an unspoken,
in a no way to describe,
in a different level kind of way.
As I grew more adept at seeing
sometimes I could sense hands, 
or glimpse a turning away cheekbone,
blinkable flashes of muted color.
It was as natural as breathing,
until the day the natural stumbled
and hung
shuddering for a moment.
And there was an Other.
Other eyes upon me,
a different,
more predatory regard filling them.
And whispers and enticements and promises…
All I wanted
and more.
All I deserved,
and more.
All that I desired…
I only need open my hand,
my heart,
my legs.
The warning glances of a host of angel eyes were like a hail of
burning ice slashing across my face
my shoulders
and my feet knew they should run…
But a darker,
older part of me
suddenly rose up from the hidden space it slumbered unnoticed in
and filled my head with something hot and glittering
like potent mead made heavy with honey and firelight.
And with senses swimming in that drugged and wanton warmth,
 I opened…

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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6 Responses to Angel Eyes

  1. Wow. What a ride. Beautiful.

  2. ailsacawley says:

    Haunting, and very close to truth 🙂

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