November 29, 2009

Fires Of The Night

by Chris Vaillancourt

It's been the storm
rising on my windows.
Washing my thoughts
into a leafy garden.

I stand there,
wet and shattered
and I hear

Empty pockets of gloom.
I smell regrets
and worse,
guilt in the flesh.
Uncertainty in the soul.

It's been the end
when it began.
I shiver
cold and indifferent.
Whispers all the rage.

I whimper
drinking wine
from silent straws
and touching nobody.

Only silences and whispers.
Only memories and tomorrows.
It's been like hell
driving on this
Cruising past renovations
and contemplating the
storms of past tomorrows.

I hear promises and
shallow sunsets.
Empty holes in
empty coffee cups.
The kettle is boiling.
No one is there
to drain it.

It's been another day.
This I knew
at the onset.
So I turned and grew
into silences.
Strong whispers
the fires of the night.


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