by Chris G. Vaillancourt
Whispers struggled out by the lisping of
the hands are
not promises that shall be kept.
No breath exists upon your soul,
it is vacant of emotion
and absent of passion.
In truth, you do not manifest salvation.
you the living Body of Christ.
The taste of your communion is foul.
It darkens the universe and
is anathema to living.
Words spoken in bed are not contracts.
The lie is easier to create than
to live in truth.
We dangle sentences across the room
at one another.
They are empty sounds of defeat.
The past is some sort of mangled memory
that confuses the present
state of being.
I am not the channel of aggression.
You are not permitted to define
me as the source of all wrong.
Flavoured cough drop melts on tongue.
Books un-opened lie like accusations
upon the floor of the heart.
Touching is just an excuse for not sharing.
Skinless hands reminding me of
delights now shadowed.
Someday the sun will shine in brilliance
over a summer's day of adventure.
I want to be alive on that day.
Last updated October 24, 2011