The Elephants Graveyard

It’s a new moon in the elephants graveyard,

and the procession approaches with a thudding grace

 felt underfoot,

a ripple along the viscera.

And the trees rise black and sharp against the pewter sky,

and the bones

lie piled in solemn spacings,

all deckled edges and memory pressed,

as the moon stands silent sentinel overhead.

It’s a new moon in the elephants graveyard

and the packed earth rumbles in recognition

as the memory keepers close around.

The wise eyes dark with the burden of years,

the air full of tears and longing, 

even the hills sigh as they pass,

the ghosts following like pale mourners,

and the morning will rise only after it is certain,

that their time of committal is done.





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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