Pieces Of Paper From This Hand Poem by Chris G. Vaillancourt

It is.
It is something.
Unknown horns blasting
like unicorns in a fire.
Sleeping heroes
that emerge from
their cocoons
as if nothing
else mattered.

And we mentioned
so many things
on the day we
were together.

Past events and present ones.
Hopes. Clothes and
a multitude of
platitudes.

So many worlds
of dirt and foliage.
Hiding behind a tree
where
the
demon
hordes
will
not find us.

They roam like
dangerous marshmallows
across the carpet
of self-awareness.

Kicking soccer balls
and
eating
a
favourite meal.
Smile.
Embrace yourself.
Be resigned
to what
is defined
in the mirror.

You are what you are.
I am what I am.

Collapsing circles
dripping
with
sarcasm.

It is.
It is finished.
There will not be
any
more
pieces
of
paper
from
this
hand.