I wonder what memories revive,
when you touch my hand or see my face.
Is what is old new again?
Are you lost in pillars of memory,
which impose the will of this broken architect?
Do my building still stand strong,
tall,
beautiful?
What power emanates from them,
and what force of will overtakes you,
when the sun catches their corners?
Do you still dance in the great hall,
of our lost, and broken-down love?
Skin,
eat this water.
It is necessary.
Warm , salty water crawls,
down chiseled cheeks,
rolling off a hero chin;
no sustenance.
Jets of hot water slap,
my thick hair and blank face,
my skin refuses to drink it in.
A ghost walks into my shower,
observing the way I am curled up,
helplessly soaking in chlorinated fire,
no chemicals kill these feelings or memories.
The ghost sighs,
unable to affect me.
A lonely time,
with delusions for company,
and the weight of loved ones' feet,
pulverizing my fragile, fleeting sanity.
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 