Chris G. Vaillancourt Poems

The trumpets sound. Bold noise in
early morning air.
Waking the dead.
Waking those about to die.
...

What do you do?
which translates to;
How do you make your money?
Money is a drug.
...

Touched my soul,
Reached my love,
And felt its hands
pushing me upwards.
...

Four souls locked in a room
discussing the relevance
of yesterday's beginnings.
The music in the background
...

I can't stay here
wrapped up in myths
of a time
I can't forget, yet
...

Dirty windows glancing with
impudence upon the street. Inside I
suspect there are dirty people living
their mangled lives. Checking each
...

Lord, have mercy, have mercy on me.
I have sinned,
I have fallen,
I am far from grace.
...

I wonder all the time how the snipping, snapping flowers
ever manage to grow? Rushing up through the dirt of
their existence, raising the cheer of the newly born.
...

Night is coming, it announces itself
like a blast of wind which
hangs from the moon.
...

I have finished with your body.

It becomes a new territory
I am not permitted to explore.
...