Wednesday, April 10, 2013

Three Poems by Kahlia Vaillancourt

The Car
A car speeds down the highway, faster and faster, the lights but a blurred fluorescence lost in the endless dark. The pitch-blackness so thick it can swallow everything, it can even hide myself.

The darkness that I love, that lets me disappear.

The music pulses louder and louder, equivalent with our glorious speed.

If only I could be so invisible forever, moving so fast as to escape it all, escape even this life maybe. Our velocity far surpassing that of sadness and guilt and love.

The blood stained air slices through me. Such a beautiful and deserved execution, my tragic, grand farewell. I am nothing, I am nowhere, against this backdrop of a blank abyss I am and shall be forever intangible.

I slip through the door painted only for me, and instantly as I leave time all behind, it no longer exists and neither does any of this I’ve known.

My abattoir emancipated, I have found that hinted to me in dreams, as I nearly woke up so many times, yet was impeded by this Earth’s greedy slave hold.

I knew that I was never meant for it, I knew all along.

And yet what was it I ever feared? To leave this loathsome place? Brainwashed by them as well, what did I ever convince myself to see in this? What redemption has it offered yet ripped countless apologies from me?

What beauty has it offered to my lacquered, thaumatrope eyes?

How am I to know its beauty, and they to say I’m not? What is beauty? What makes those fortunate so and those not condemned?

Who chooses these titles, these lotteries, these classes?

What collection of atoms, of energies, have sentenced us to be here? Left amidst the rubble of purpose, chanting blindly to ourselves: I must work harder, I must be beautiful, I must have more money, I must earn my way into heaven.

And what are the rewards they reap, the fruit of their dolorous labors?

They wither and die.

They do not know that there’s a heaven. They believe there is, for they’ve been told. They are sure of it, in fact; they become angry with those who have doubted. Their lives toiled away trying to get there, standing in an endless line for admittance, an infinite pilgrimage to a doubtful Mecca.

But they do not know.

My car speeds on. Going nowhere, my car and my music and myself, going forth nowhere, a pulchritudinous nothing.

A weight is lifted from me.

My cross, my burden, my body.

What, after all, is it needed for but this life’s futile deeds?

I have never known such paralleled freedom. Have I ever known any? Could I have even dreamt of such?

Faster and faster, momentously spinning off into vast and vacant space. This unbridled, searched for antiworld, all chains left behind. Leaden chains of shackled regret, of hate, of insanity, of lies, and of love.

A life, no countless, spent, wasted, or perhaps merely lived, looking blindly for keys.

Spray painted eyes, though merciful, sew them open, stitch by stitch. They must see, they have earned this.

Let the blood burn through their apathy, give them sight, hide not behind their laws.

Gaze, stare if they must, unto this state they have created.

Yes, they made this, could it have ever been different there is no answer, it is now the human condition. Forget humane, they have never borne association.

No keys have been buried, they must have burned them, was there any merciful surrender ever meant for this race in the first place.

What do you feel? Have you forgotten how?

It is what grabs hold of you from inside, what pierces your heart, rips open your brain, screams from frantic decibels within each vein, what pulses behind your eyes and burns them, bringing tears.

It is pity you feel, contempt? Perhaps pain, though love is the worst.

I believe they all may crush you, but you will not die, as much as you’d like to, as much as you pray.

That you may suffer in their wake is my goodbye. I feel nothing in my new atmosphere.


Cold. Air Cold. Air just as cold as icicled black thread wrapped around sloppily painted nails.

Slowly it sings. The cold. Such a carefully orchestrated sadness the justice of a random blue bird the pinion of a ceramic-held frown plastered on the stone face of the Queen of Spades.

Solitary. It is the only game she knows how to play. She is so good at it, sitting on these peacock velvet chairs,

Rigid. Rigid with the lack of love and paralyzed by their own gilded exterior.

As well as that of the girl. Who politely ignores the screaming of the broken clock defective for this complicated Earth time, and stares at the television, angrily talking to no one and blaming its prison on everyone all at once.

It does not comfort the girl. It merely jeers at her, this girl who has won one game, and lost a more important one…

She lifts slowly her muscadine wine laboriously to her lips, but it shatters in her frozen grasp. Staining her perfectly starched albino dress.

She goes on playing. Playing her myriad of solitary card games. Except for the lonely stare from the Queen, no one will notice.
Meaning slowly seeps away, precious blood cascading through the fingertips of outstretched time. It is ephemeral, intangible, impossible to keep
A glimpse caught amid the early morning sunrise. Blinding beauty, beauty blinding, but a painted canvas draped over what lies ahead
Glimmering façade belying the darkness. Infallible lies. Invisible darkness impossible dread to escape
The tears are never far away. They lurk in every regret, every uncertainty and hesitation, every lost debate
Forgotten words coming back to haunt, to ensure they’re unforgiven
Pen in hand, but a feeble attempt to recreate that which dies the moment it exists. Only a feeling, in its split second existence, keeps us in its power, waiting for more wanting for more
empty promises
Perhaps there is no more
Whether this world, in the end, has been too much or too little is of no consequence. It will end with the simple reflection of whether it has been anything at all
The other cars speed by now as you sit, suspended animation, in some false and thickened atmosphere, deafened by this heartless charade around you
This is no place for a tortured soul, this earth
there is no place…
Kahlia Vaillancourt is a full time nurse, writer, and creator. She is currently pursuing a degree in library science, and has enjoyed a lifetime love of all things literary. She is also fond of animals, art, music, coffee, and intelligence. She presently resides in Las Vegas with her husband, daughter, and 2 furbabies. She calls Detroit her home.

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