I am like dust sifted from the sandman’s basket

fallen on to the floor,

waiting patiently for my big moment, 

but only the broom and dustpan find me.

I am all the nights passed without note,

unremarkable and still.

I am the water pooling under melting ice. 

I am the row of shabby seats way at the back

 where the lights don’t reach.

I can’t make you see me.

I can’t make anyone more aware without making myself visible,

and like a night moving creature I am too wary of the bright.

To step into the spotlight would require an introduction,

to learn illegible lines,

 and hand out programs I am ill equipped to provide.

So much of me is a satellite,

in constant movement around,

and around,

never lingering,

never connecting.

Time heals, time flies,

so they say,

but those are ones who time has been kind to.

The angels of memory only look on in sorrow

 holding up their hands in helpless support

while the jewels I wear, 

as heavy as their history, 

drag me down like wet sheets knotting about my legs.

Briefly I may watch from the shadows in fascination and puzzlement,

still patient,

still unremarkable,

still wary.

But the wind changes and the scenes shift

and it’s easier to stay in orbit,

 alone but shining faintly,

 than brave the brittle ice.

Better to be your own timid light,

 than find yourself trapped on stage….

where you aren’t seen at all.



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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3 Responses to Satellite

  1. So much of me is a satellite,
    in constant movement around,
    and around,
    never lingering,
    never connecting………………………Your words always move me. Thank you.

  2. ailsacawley says:

    As always your words strike chords, deep chords 🙂 thank you for doing that

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