Flames In A Wishing Well Poem by Chris G. Vaillancourt

I felt the rumbling
of the fire as it
burned,
mutilated,
my skin.
The fresh laid logs
glowed in their
own sort of
maniacal tension.
My heated flesh
denied the
existence
of the pain.
I drive myself
to pursue
new directions.
So let the comb
arrange the hair
and
let the face be
nice and clean.
I entered a place
of restless tomorrows.
Eyes dashing
left and right
to see if the
cups of promise
follow along.
Throw a nickle
into the wishing well.
Make a wish.
Meditating in
determined manner,
hot or cold does
not matter anymore.
I can only be the type
of person
I want to be.
What works
for others
does not always
comfort me.
Too many followers
and not enough
individuals.
The mystery to me
is why this
doesn't bother anyone.
I place my hands
out in front of me,
and let my fingers
feel the growing grass
as it comes through
the ground.
A crowd of one
with temporary
isolation.
A place of peace
where none
exists.
I rub away the
helpless hurting.
Gaining warmth
from the returning flame.