I am like an old and dented cookie tin
the one that’s been emptied and is now used for spare buttons and odd shaped pieces that fall off of things
 and pennies found rolled and hairy under the couch. 
I am like a plant that died upright,
 propped in a corner and no one has noticed yet
that the hollow leaves are slowly crisping.
I am like a locket that never held a photo of anyone I actually knew,
it was of a model family,
 and I kept it for a while
 then finally threw it away
because it didn’t fool anyone
myself included.
And I know empty should feel like a malady that needs a cure.
something that needs me to fight,
to fill,
to morph,
 empty feels right.
When wine is put improperly into bottles it explodes.
maybe my bottles need to stand alone,
and hold only dust,
as insulation,
as camouflage.
Maybe I am lighter when empty,
maybe I can be lifted more easily
into where..?
I don’t know
my directions are a vague wave of the hand…
as long as it’s some place
And if on the journey I hear a tinny rattling
maybe there will be an old button still wedged in a corner,
still a little sparkle,
even while forgotten,
even while alone.
A hedge against the terrible silence of empty fields.
And maybe the dust will keep me warm enough to stand still in the cold night
and count the strange stars.
Maybe empty is an invitation…



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. Not.....me. 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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13 Responses to Empty

  1. We all have those boxes full of what I call futilities. And a plant that should have been thrown on the compost ages ago. But we also have bright shiny buttons in that box too. That’s why we keep the box 🙂

  2. Reblogged this on Jane Dougherty Writes and commented:
    I love this analysis of what we are. Frightening, but hopeful too.

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