I hang limply,


without grace or charm of form,

around your neck,

and lurch in warning when your hand moves near.

I am no mere reminder for you

but a lifetime sentence.

 And I, 

the victim,

must serve it with you.


Some days you try to forget,

this feathered and boned necklace hunched across your neck.

And I try to forget too,

with my eyes tight shut,

pretending that your breathing is merely the swell of the sea…

Then you speak and break my spell.

Often you curse me,

as if I wasn’t already,

hanging under you

catching your breath, your dreams, your rages,

your fear…

wearing tracks along my curled and moldering form.

Your aim has damned us both,

and this exile is as far and as unforgiving as the sea…



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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