Desperate Aeroplanes Circling The Airports Of Defeat Poem by Chris G. Vaillancourt

Another year happens, another ends.
Lucid nostalgia demands illogical thoughts.

Tomorrow, and ever after, is always
a new beginning.

I'm empty.

The cliché astounds and pretends
so many desperate aeroplanes
circling the airports of defeat.

Eat more or drink less, consume
until every molecule is regenerated.

Pick yourself up, and even more,
allow the stress to become always.

I'm afraid really.
I think that is the better truth.

Around me are desolate squirrels
throwing away their possibilities.
Screeching birds drift in the sky,
insulting every other bird in the blue.

I'm very afraid.
Very stitched up
with curving imagination.

Why does anyone read these words?