Between The Waking Hours

Between the Waking Hours ~
I rise up, 
slow dancing in the rumpled sheets and glancing,
side eyed,
into the mirror to see if it is still me,
or has the dream waif taken me over?
Red berry lips bitten once,
tousled hair hiding too much knowledge.
Have I fallen down a rabbit hole,
or have the rabbits dragged me with them, 
requiring a new,
 more ambitious,
Is this a pedestal I have climbed,
 or steps to the gallows,
hard to tell when
they both lead up.
Whatever copious mounds of gold may rest in chests hidden deep
is nothing piled next to the secrets I hold like red death over all
crushed into pulp in my fists.  
I wipe my hands on the sheets
as I steady,
 between the waking hours,
and wonder if the vision in the mirror
will miss me,
or does she laugh victoriously to see me go
feeling that she has won…

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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