Silk Scarf Fluttering In The Breeze Poem by Chris G. Vaillancourt

Sighing, he opens a book.
Reads a page, comprehends nothing.

Don't be afraid.
Rushing like gold chains
locked around the necks
of constipated people.
Running away is
not the way to live.
Face it.
Define it.
Discover the helium balloons
that frolic like plastic bottles
around the jungles of grief.

Hurting one day.
Pain free the next.
Up and down and swirling
like magazine covers
filled with good looking
plastic models.

Smiling, he eats spaghetti
and pretends it is
steak and potatoes.

There never seems to be
a second when the water bottles
are ready to be drunk.

Always, yes always, there
are victories not celebrated.
Schemes and dreams
not shared with anybody.

Pretending, he moans.
Trapped within a
prognosis that promises
to be fatal.

Live.
Forget about picture frames
that are not made of wood.
Create positive images
that will enforce themselves
upon the consciousness
of the dropping stones.

Save yourself.
Save your friends.
Save your family.

Kneeling, he prays.
'Take this from me, ' he implores.
'But if not, if You decide
that this is what is to be,
teach me to walk in trust.'

He talked to God.
He talked to himself.
He heard words that
sunk themselves into mud.

The mud, it dried.
He embraced it.
It became his goal.

Surrender.
Quit.
Just be.

Thinking, he drives himself
to flutter like a silk scarf
floating in the breeze.