Where I Live

Let me show you where I live,

not the house,

not the neighborhood,

not the stairs trudged up and down,

not the spaces I fill and

exist in.

Let me show you where I live.

The halls of memories and mirrors,

the places filled to bursting with tiny boxes,

of buttons and shiny glass and rocks,

and damp handkerchiefs,

and knives.

Pens on every table and

jars of lotion and oil

and books marked “This” and “This, yes” with curls of colored paper.

One wall of hats,

another of masks

and one vast wall all clean white and empty, an uncapped marker dried and forgotten on the floor.

A broken case spills photos across a leaning table,

a laughing girl,

a grimly smiling woman,

and squares of faded blankness,

with smudges in the corners like question marks.

Bowls of water to quell the burnings

and blankets to smother flames and feelings both.

Starlight, moonlight, sunlight; all bottled and labeled and shining in rows,

dried flowers,

bunched and bitter herbs,

pressed letters,

and a doll made of scraps whose face with lopsided smile resembles someone you knew once…

Walk farther in,

farther in,

farther in,

farther down,

where there are no corners,

just slumping curves,

the walls soft and crumbling a bit,

scoured and painted in pale colors with salt water and feathers,

where a goldenwood owl stands sentinel in the middle,

and a small leather book is tucked tidily in a low hanging beam,

worn to a satin finish and pages waterswollen and crisped.

It ends here,

(or begins)

and the light may play games with your eyes,

but focus on me,

on my words,

and you will steady.

Count one



and look…

I am all around you.


This is where I live.






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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