Fear had its claws pushed through the skin
that coiled tightly around my veins and muscle,
a failed attempt to turn me away or bleed me out.
I was not dying anytime soon and the only thing
scarier than love was a lack of progress towards it.
The fear hung on like bats waiting for night to fall,
but I was the only falling piece on the board.
I popped 10mg of melatonin in this tailspin
Of insomnia,
Shaved my head in the bathroom mirror
And wrote four poems.
Progress beckons and
The drugs held me better than most lovers.
Sunrise and sunset have lost their meaning.
There is no metaphysical, quasi-poetic, deep explanation.
The sun rising or setting no longer dictates when I sleep or rise,
when I begin my day or end it,
or anything else of significance for me.
I have become unbound,
and there’s no reason for it.
Surely, it has just happened,
as a blocked sink overflows,
a burning log smolders,
as an old man dies,
a baby is born;
progression.
Rising sun batters through St. John’s fog,
and dense cloud cover,
as seagulls hover,
unconcerned.
A harbour city rocks awake,
machinery bangs and clunks,
predestined purpose drives,
the ideas became discussion became policy,
and a once-broken city for poor labourers,
is suddenly erecting condos from hillsides.
Progression.
Something stagnant,
but comfortable,
and safe.
Something taken for granted,
chokes and fails,
giving way to,
nothing of value.
Something appreciated and nourished,
gets back up,
with every fall,
and won't die.
Boredom battling,
against an ideal of novelty,
scarcely acknowledged,
never understood.
Take it from a man,
who has survived many trenches,
nothing comes easy,
but something breaks easy.
Progress is possible
resistance is not futile.
Andy Veilleux 