Falling ~

The cities so far below,


 misted and uncertain,


like a puzzle tossed carelessly.

And we stood together,

you and I,

and talked of long histories made when the sky was newborn,

and names had not been breathed into being,

there was no direction we did not see,

could not see,

so the fall,

when it came,

struck hard

and without warning.

The view of who is good and who is bad,

is largely decided by where you are standing when the world explodes,

for black and white are only shades.

With heart and hands of stone I dug,

through the plains and caverns, 

the high places and lowest of the low,

always hoping for a token,

and sliver of you left as a levee,

 to hold against the tidal wave of knowing, 

that would surely come,

and rend me,

wash me, 

into the void,

with that last question still clinging to my open mouth,

as a sunset holds with desperate fastness to the shore,

until the waters drown it.

Never is a long time.

Never is a vast desert with sterile skies 

and only the music of the dunes to listen to.

I lifted my eyes at the end of it all,

 to meet yours,

your eyes still,   

although strange and hardened by the ground you anchored to,

and leaned into that unnamed wind

 wordless and begging

and your mouth barely moved as you said,

 “You will never forgive me for falling, will you?”

and I whispered,

 “No, I will never forgive you for leaving me behind.”

And then I too




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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