The Sun Set

 

They pushed her into the pool,
and the deep end grabbed her and held her,
and it was her fault naturally,
because water only gets into your lungs if you,
(scream)
have no sense of humor and,
the children were sent to other pools,
but walls were glass and the water drained out,
leaving them in a box in the ground.
(but it’s not a cage so why are they acting like they are upset..)
And the rest of the life guards turned off the lights and locked the doors,
because they deserved a night out,
and the sun set.
And the newspapers were corrected and reprinted until the ink gave up,
and gunmakers wept and wrung their hands and their profit margins as bibles became the weapon of choice,
and in the next village people refused to wall themselves in
with the same bricks being thrown through their windows,
making a sound very like breaking glass,
and the sun set.
And the jugglers bravely tried to keep all the worlds in the air but finally fell
exhausted,
and cut their hands on the smashed bits as they cried and tried to gather them together.
And sleazy salesmen sold the thirsty water that burned the lips and belly,
then admonished the crowd for their unworthiness,
(there’s not a thing wrong with that water as long as you don’t mention it…)
and the sun set.
The sun set.
And the sun tried to rise but couldn’t find a reason.

©jayetomas2018

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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