Chris G. Vaillancourt

Silver Star - 3,046 Points (April 5,1959-june 2016 / Canada)

Flames In A Wishing Well - Poem by Chris G. Vaillancourt

I felt the rumbling
of the fire as it
my skin.
The fresh laid logs
glowed in their
own sort of
maniacal tension.
My heated flesh
denied the
of the pain.
I drive myself
to pursue
new directions.
So let the comb
arrange the hair
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
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
A place of peace
where none
I rub away the
helpless hurting.
Gaining warmth
from the returning flame.

Topic(s) of this poem: philosophical , psychological

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Poem Submitted: Tuesday, January 26, 2016

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