Drifting Like A Sunbeam On Fire Poem by Chris G. Vaillancourt

I'm drifting. I can sense the tangled
rivers that flow in
ever increasing confusion
all through my tunneled
point of view. Not even
crossing myself brings me
peace of soul. Lift the
hairbrush in apathetic hand,
brush the hair and
ignore the brain underneath
the scalp. It is easier
to play with toys, to play
with images of being real.
Cigarette lighter lies on
the table. If I flick it how long
before I can burn the eyes
out of my head?
Rolling strands of random
moments flicker like
light-bulbs in my line
of sight. Ignore the
need that calls for
attention. Play the radio
and pretend the songs matter
to somebody.
Washing dishes does
not mean the body is equally
clean. I'm eating
chocolate chip cookies and
imagining that they are
filling my empty stomach
with hope for tomorrow.
Let the doors remain closed!
Let the blinds remain drawn!
I must not see outside and instead
must focus on internal most of
the time.
Is this selfish? Self-centred?
Delusional?
I'm drifting. Shaking the
sweater clean of all
traces of lint. Combing the
careless diversity of thought
out of the air. When the
bugle blows, I can march
like any little soldier right up
to the flagpole where I will
salute the nothing and celebrate
the death of everything
I grew up to believe.
It gets easier as I get older
to disarm the emotional tug
of other hearts wanting to
connect. Pull pants down and lie
across the bed waiting for the
intellectual spanking deserved.
I'm drifting. I can sense the tangled
rivers that flow in
ever increasing confusion
all through my tunneled
point of view.