Another wall,
another dead end.
Confronted with it,
all too familiar,
once again.
This can't be the limit,
there has to be more.
No,
no.
No.
Not now,
at least,
but maybe not ever.
And maybe I'm too late.
There's no breaking out of,
a slump like this,
and there's only one end,
despite all the options.
There's only one end.
Every touch,
a piece of heart,
a lonely pair,
with a new start.
Prophets didn't write it down,
a new beginning, a new town,
a fresh filter for my thoughts,
throw the old ones to the dogs.
I watch the sun rise over hills,
you populated with poison quills,
but will roam around no longer.
My strength returns slowly;
my eye catches a ray of sun,
a ray of hope,
a new dawn.
Infused with energy,
a smile spreads across my face like cancer,
the chances of its survival are the same,
or maybe not this time.
Optimism fights with reality,
a spear tipped with malice and distrust,
swinging like a welterweight in the first,
occasionally biting crimson,
but often slicing air alone;
the battle will end somehow.
Everything ends,
somehow.
There's paper tigers,
and paper champions,
but I never heard about,
all of the paper ghosts.
Their soft, word-down exteriors,
only matched by empty souls, begging,
for validation and a new existence,
finding only shit and piss,
and settling for the sewers.
Your soul was rotten,
and died long ago;
I remember,
don't you?
Failure,
eighty-two stories high,
and stacking even higher,
nobody will build your Lego failure with you,
I'm bored, he's ill-equipped,
and everyone else got out of town,
when they saw the change happening.
No one waits for a one-sided conversation,
or the broken light pouring out of a dim bulb,
that used to shine as bright as the noon sun.
Fading fast,
but not fast enough,
it would seem.
A pale horse is a better visage,
than the one of pale whores,
you were well-known for;
lack of stamina
diseased
worn-out
left in the
cold
finally lonely
stories always end
there
life never does.
Andy Veilleux 