Nameless and Necessary

Take me to your church,
the church of old bones,
and show me the doctrine on the damp and powdered walls.
The ones which tell how to travel with Rightness
(or is it Mightness?)
And then dip me in the font,
the holy plaster,
smoothing my clothes into grecian swirls. 
How lovely I will look standing in the garden
calm dead eyes gazing for eternity
frozen in the respectability you killed me for…
Take me to your library
the shelves empty and reaching up piteously
clinging to the bare walls
as if seeking escape.
The written has been erased,
 to crumble.
For what is Necessary can be told,
and nothing is remembered so well as the sentence mouthed in unison,
over and over and over.
You assured me that I could be taught,
that I could be,
Take me to the museum,
the history of the lost,
and show me the great hall filled with the sharp,
the culling instruments.
Designed and worshipped for the bonsai’d people – 
we, who need shaping and careful attention,
whose only chaperoned growth is recommended,
so that we are not tempted to push through the concrete like a vulgar weed.
There are other exhibits here but there are no cards of dry description,
no details,
 no stats,
just a booming blank. 
A quiet that harbors the ends of screams.
A quiet which may be broken at any second,
and is all the more terrible for the waiting…
You introduced me to many fears yet Nameless is the only one everyone has met.
I wipe my hands surreptitiously after the clammy clasp 
knowing the sharpness of those eyes may pierce and stab at any given moment.
So I hold my thoughts in place, arrange my face according to the advertised fashion
and breath carefully
in my allotted space.
Tell me again how these are all for me,
all for my own good,
my improvement,
and that I don’t need to think about
any more…

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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