When the earth buckles there is a slowing down moment
as if the air is stretched like too thin dough and you hear
the explosion before you see it.
The shock when the sparrowhawk hits, 
the wall of water when the wave breaks too soon,
the light bulb bursting you into the dark,
the stumbling turn when the earthquake grabs the floor under you and shakes it like an old rug,
and your senses lurch behind in a game of catch me if you can,
until the stretching moment ends and snaps back.
The hearing slams into your head with rocket force
and a strange gardens bloom only where you walk,
and you wonder,
what tilted the world?
And what righted it?
What is left to hold on to?
For the last time you grabbed a rope it nearly strangled you…
Is it less painful to stay splayed out on the ground?
To learn to be blind and burrow 
covering your face from the sky?
Or take a chance and stand to face the avalanche?
Which side of the apple to bite?
Which of the dark chests standing along your path
will yield gold
instead of slamming down,
will answer questions instead of maiming,
and are the signs along the way meant to guide or confuse?
Your poor head cannot keep up and so your other senses must rise to the occasion,
but that strange garden has bloomed some unquiet flowers
that no sane person bends to breathe in.
And an electrical storm hovers nearby, 
and the clocks are all gathering breath for their alarms,
and the hairs on your arm wave like seagrass
but you cannot pull a turtle shell over yourself and still see which undulating horizon to aim at.
And before the air thins once more,
you wonder if you will hear the shot before you feel it,
and if an arrow begs pardon for slamming into you.
Or if the moon keeps record of the light that leaves it in slices,
and if your garden will cover you in the end
with love,
or with something heavier.

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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