Passion can not to described to those void of it.
You have it
or you don't.
There's no grey area,
no second guessing.
There is also no sense of justice,
and when you believe there is,
kill that thought.
The politicians are best left politicing,
while the journalists are left in gutters.
Truth found,
no megaphone.
A genius without ambition,
led down the path of the poor,
to throw his life down,
before the abyss' door.
An unexpressable pain hangs 'round,
the image of your corpse underground,
in wars fought for land, cash and crown.
Where are the eyes that looked so mild?
What punishment befell us when you smiled,
no longer innocent?
To whose drum do you march?
Which guns force the start?
when will the
guns and drums,
and drums and guns,
pace your steps and drain your heart?
Where are the legs with which you run?
On which shoulder is the setting sun?
And what will be left of you
when the barrel gives you cue,
and your eyes project naught but death.
Where are the legs with which you run,
when first you went to carry a gun,
indeed your dancing days are done,
Oh friend, I hardly knew ye.
The whisky hammering is
a soft, slow touch
molding you as putty to
the recesses of your mind.
It rubs you,
coerces you,
like felt in a world
filled with cactus feelings,
people with razors for teeth,
it's never-ending,
the scorn of an existential hell.
I'll give you one hundred years
free of charge
and it won't matter anyways.
Soak my brain in one hundred
years worth of whisky
in a night and it won't matter
anyways
because we're all waiting for the same train,
some depart earlier than others
but it's the same destination.
I love you,
I hope you burn.
Salvation forgotten,
Meaningless in the abyss
Of existence we are thrown into.
As if it mattered anyways,
When the world was structured
On top of a man bleeding on wood,
Absurdity and a pinch of the obscure
For good measure.
There was never a more convenient time to measure,
But how many martyrs did we use?
Jesus man,
I’ve forgotten now,
I thought you had counted.
Well,
Let’s say one for good measure.
And pick him,
So easy writing prophecies when
Things have already happened
And we will fill the remainder with dreams.
Nobody reads the footnotes.
A limit of steps;
Life as a marathon,
Maybe a sprint.
So many steps from innocence,
Or naivety,
Call it what you will
And I call it like it is.
Probably not so close to the
Finish
Line,
But the end is to be announced.
For now we are running free,
Limited only by a mortal frame
-Set to expire-
Which is the whole point of life.
Most people don’t see the finish line,
And are afraid to search,
Fearing this will be their last run.
And,
It will be.
Ethereal connection,
untouchable by the others,
and fuck the others.
Anyone would,
and us no less,
but we know fun,
passion,
yet sadness.
Sweet curves,
built to make grown men cry,
hold the weight of the world's
expectations of women to be thin.
Curved body,
a temple,
makes you want to get down
on both knees
and pray
or beg.
You are a ghost,
potential unrealized by others
But I look through and see you,
I see you
I see you through the drugs
love
sex
living
and you can come in from
the cold
that nips at heels so well travelled.
You've felt it,
haven't you?
The scars are there,
the healing is on the way,
drown it with fun
and people
who don't understand you
but I
I see you
I see you.
I see you,
ghost of now,
Standing out in a crowd,
only to vanish when the lights
come
out and the bar stools are put up.
You were never there for anybody
despite who you leave with
and you're always
coming
home to me.
Glasses long emptied,
chips are down,
sun has set.
The snow is white,
if and only if,
the writer says it is.
The snow is true,
if and only if,
passionate frost bites flesh
seeking to amalgamate the heat
and preserve the body for all time,
but not the fragile soul.
These ironic bars
a plague on words
and both our spouses
a never-ending gore-y
the rock-upy movement.
Language,
useless.
And who knows how to talk about it?
And who would bother?
On The Rock,
surrounded by ocean,
on a molten ball of dirt,
hurling through space and nothing.
This line won't matter.
There's a flow to life,
and anxiety scares you into
a lovely, hidden reality of near-death,
when you know you could jump into the breach,
turn your steering wheel in a complete one-eighty,
and embrace the anti-infinity by choice.
There are two choices in life you don't make:
Birth and Death,
you are responsible for every other mistake and success.
Of course,
you'll lie through your
gritted, stupid, little teeth,
about all the people who wronged you,
and why things didn't go as planned but,
nobody believes it,
they agree to be nice.
Your life is your own;
you fail alone,
succedd alone,
and die alone.
Life is a selfish act,
and our cages prevent connections.
Abyss is too defined a term to describe
the nothingness breathing on my hour glass,
the glass fogs from the moist nasal air,
blurring out the wasting grains of sand.
No,
too soon.
"When you're my age,
death doesn't seem so far,
and it occupies you,"
said the elder scholar,
but he lied,
or was ignorant.
Death does occupy me,
I see it in my fingers pounding
on plastic keys in a dark room
surrounded by melodies of sorrow;
good winter,
that crack the surface of mortality.,
if only fleetingly.
I have failed you,
and the sand doesn't go back up
the one-way paths in all our lives
and neither will the tears of loved ones,
weeping over something we used to be,
but can never regain again.
What was once moving,
loving,
thinking,
breathing,
is now undone,
and broken down.
No trancendence,
no light to follow,
no salvation sought,
and no mercy given.
Born into the godless abyss,
and returned to nothingness.
Andy Veilleux 