Chris G. Vaillancourt (April 5,1959 / Canada)
And The Circle Collects Its Own Release
It's a dark, strange troll that hops across my heart.
Limping in solitude through the yawning acres of departure,
encumbered by remorse.
It's been a long day and so I say,
'let the evil seep in, begin the funeral again.'
Sipping water from a broken cup.
Thirsty for knowlege of underwater life.
It's a begging of something grand.
Faces swarming like bees in a honey tree.
So I proclaim the end, and let the disapointment
be the circle of hope. I am facing the war.
Guns are rippling like sonic flashes of departure.
I wonder who will be tucking in the babies tonight?
Forgotten footsteps that I should have walked
are the only solace in an empty parking lot.
It's been a long life and so I say,
'let the permission slips fall to the ground.
Dream a dream of dreams dreaming of light.'
A wonderful interior view of red and yellow traffic lights.
I caress myself in the darkened room.
Growing anxious that the trolls will attack
the bridges of rushing stone.
I am a rock thrown like candy to the ground.
I am a moment in an hour glass.
I am fully aware of the depth of my soul.
It's been a strange thought, this hope, and so I say,
'let the webs be woven that will eventually
be my mask.'
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