Copper Thoughts

“I have always valued my lifelessness.”
~ TikTok

I am not the light that pours and pools through an open window.
I am not the drops of citron dotting a meadow,
 the brief sunburst under a grubby chin.
I am softer, 
easily beaten into shape, 
and like a conversation with a stranger in the street
easily forgotten.
Copper thoughts and copper lights
an odd, tangerine, banked fire glow…
I hold the bright when I can get it
 and only grudgingly release it,
and the tarnish that creeps across 
stains more than the outer layers of me.
I may have peregrine visions and words of iron
but my heart is titian,
and my tongue too easily befuddled,
and I have tried,
I have hennaed my dreams,
brushing every square inch,
overlapping until even I can’t see where they begin…
It’s like a staircase
something invented for no other reason than to take you somewhere else
and I do want to claim the golden
the melting shine that signals a winner.
I want to polish it with my breath and hold it up to see the sun reflecting in my eyes
but the dull kettle booming fools no one
and the top shelf is not meant for the likes of me.
I have a serviceable heart,
one that works for the greater glory
of the light,
but resides in the out of sight,
the cellar,
the basement of steam and pipes.
And my hennaed dreams sweat and smear and run
while my words of iron drop without notice,
on the ground. 



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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