Lamentation ~

The Box stands glimmering,

electric with dark magic and a wanting that goes beyond reason,

flutters moth like outside the boundaries of explainable and expected,

of …appropriate.


I trace my fingers across the carved circles and lines

runic symbols with an edge so finely crafted it swallows the light.

A press, a turn, a recognition of where it wants your finger to go

needs it to go….

I learn the trails and my fingers warm

the air growing louder and the vibrations traveling along the flesh of my hand,

a buzzing as if a hive had opened up under my feet,

which sets the lamentation humming like a wine glass.

But like a priest only I can hear this confession

this dirge

these repulsive glamours spreading like frost

threading into my ears and eyes.

Ignore the screaming nerves and drop your polite expectations

they only slow your motion

like trying to run in a bad dream…

What portal did you envision, what cave of wonders did you think you had gained access to?

I rolled the stone away searching for a key

an invitation

to join with something higher

experience something with a sharper, keener edge

an intensity that would speak to me in ways the sad and worn streets of

Our Town never could.

That search was a medley of frustrating themes replayed in a thousand variations…

At the very end stood an innocuous puzzle box

diamond cut and filled with those arcane mysteries

I was seeking.

It is now left to me to find an interpreter

a guide through this serpentine landscape.

To construct an answer to the humming

to signal my acquiescence

for it is not my hands, dusted with fear and ashes,

that summon the lamenting….

it is desire…



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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