The last breath of the Chimaera [Poem]

Up on Olive Cliffs –

A shadow born from breeding death

Smiles upon the setting sun

With murmurs of a fragile breath.

There are these people dressed in black,

With voices singing crying glass…

They want a yesterday – to have it back,

The hours, seconds, days that passed.

A moment in your short existence.

A trembling raindrop – autumn leaves,

A thought of them – recalling distance,

Another hand-written fault like this.

And in the courtyard from above,

Where figures dance in nightly robes,

You might decide to yell and sob

And put you memories in blood wardrobes.

The figures – what they really know

And how they feel – I can’t imagine…

Their dance – a silky shaking snow

A life so lost – so ripped – so fragile.

When I approach – I hear their wailing…

So much disturbance, boiled emotions

And sounds of brokenness – my brain impaling –

No cure for derangement – stale toxic potions.

I try to bring them to a sense,

To figure out what pain dictates,

But slowly they ignore my breathing –

Deciding what unbalance states.

They climb the cliffs, they have dark crowns

And Death itself – awaits on throne!

With roses, serpents, ups and downs

And grey helplessness carved in stone.

And one by one they reach the lord

Of the decaying turbulence –

They kiss the hands made up of bones

And twist and die with violence.

They don’t fight back – they never stop,

Like blind flies in a darker chamber…

I too engage to reach the top

Leaving behind all I remember.

In front of Death – a silence speaks

The massive bones of thousand eras.

It’s time – the moment has come – this is

The last breath of the Chimaera.




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