Shimmers On My Skin Poem by Chris G. Vaillancourt

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

The smell of lilacs playing
lazily through my nostrils.

I moan the sacred songs of
forgotten tribes that once
danced in the
rivers of desire.

Stand before the window,
my eyelids heavy with
guilty memories.

My mouth flavoured with
dirty secrets spoken
to the rustling leaves.

Understanding only that the
clocks will never cease
to unfold the passage of
people as they wander by.

And I know the purpose of hammers.
I know the meaning of the nails.

Hang me up on a piece of wood,
pretend I am a modern day Jesus.
Drive the nails into my flesh.
Crucify me. Leave me to
hang until death.

Night is coming, it hurries to
flow through the weeping blood
that shimmers on my skin.