Haven't remembered my dreams in weeks,
there's been nothing worth remembering,
you've managed to slip away from them,
there's nothing you were resembling.
And that's the life of it,
and what happens by the death of it,
always trying hard,
always suffering a split,
in your guilty conscience,
maybe I was obnoxious,
and maybe you never tried,
hard enough,
to prevent the greatest loss,
so grimey and well-stuck in,
you couldn't prevent the deterioration with floss,
and constant brushing, of your teeth,
more appropriately, fangs,
you sucked the life out of me,
but i kicked you away in the nick of time,
the hero never dies,
at least not without coming back;
unexplainable life through a time-stream,
or I'm-better-than-Jesus resurrection dream.
And I was better, and definitely still am,
because I'd never abandon you,
or pretend I existed in a fake book,
with fake people, living a fake life,
floating on a boat that became symbolic,
of people's dreams;
forgotten after they led them somewhere else,
ungrateful, but thats the way humans are,
we don't care what brought us there,
after a trip, nobody thanks their car,
and maybe we should,
or at least the vehicle's engineers,
if not its inventors, who brought us the technology,
just don't take a look at the product's toxicology,
and the way it's destroying what really matters.
But we never look behind the curtain,
there's too much risk and work involved,
we only want you to bring us the riddle,
if it's a Sherlock-problem, sure to be solved,
and that's the way our dreams dissolved,
when there was nothing left to boggle us,
and keep us guessing and hoping,
because hope and guesswork died with the dreams,
or maybe it was vice versa.
Nothing is certain, and nothing is eternal,
humanity doesn't understand the permanent,
because our relationships aren't,
and neither are our lives,
bbut maybe our souls are,
or at least our presence,
and I'm not talking social media,
or even the famous, and encyclopedia Brittanica;
nothing lasts.
I would say it's better that way,
because it makes life feel more important,
that's a suggestion from Dorian Gray,
but an expiry date never made the milk taste better,
or the dream have longer legs to walk with.
Dreams still die,
a lonely, cruel death,
curled up, vomiting,
in a forgotten corner,
the party still rages on.
One down goes unnoticed,
in this unnatural selection,
when there are still fifty-two up,
and flipping like madmen,
giving out drinks,
and playing games involving thumbs,
which separate us from other animals,
but never from ourselves,
and thats the struggle of life.
The fine walk along the line of,
community and liberty,
falling apart around our ears,
the ones in the know reduced to tears,
or clouding the pain with smoke,
not accompanied by mirrors,
it's real life,
no illusions,
there's no David Blaine or Criss Angel,
and no saints or sinners,
all losers, with no winners,
and that's where life is,
the edge of heaven or hell,
purgatory,
and we'll all waiting,
but it's never long enough,
the Ticktockman's clock is ticking,
a little faster than we'd hoped,
because nobody's only working forty,
not in North America.
Time runs in fast shoes,
before the gun even goes off,
it's cheating us,
but we're cheating ourselves,
so who cares,
that's life,
what's the rush?
We'll all meet end up at the finish line,
one way or another,
no winners,
but new records.
Andy Veilleux 