Who Can Lock the Door?

How can one stand at the window and turn away while locking the shade safely,



Who can lock the doors 

as the waters rise,

while wiping the good words from sculpted lips 

with a fine and flawless linen cloth?

What cold flint has replaced the soul

that can calculate the carpet cleaning bill and the AntiVogue photo op,

and deem it more salvageable,

more precious

than a last breath,

a desperate shiver?

And how do you face your god,

your mirror,

without punching through the glass

and wanting to shatter

the inhumanity staring back at you?

Who can lock the doors,

how do you lock your doors,

as the waters keep rising….


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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