Seconds scrub our life away like
waves scraping down the coast
or rain dragging away the earth.
We watched time eat our clasped hands,
falling away one fragment of skin after another
and never said a word about it.
We felt the approaching wall coming
but could not seem to put it into words;
the beauty of an ageless love had become
the tragedy of the leaves,
aged, dying and passionless.
Months no longer mattered
Much less days
And time itself took on a liquid form.
Time was never much of a fact for me
I never gave encouragement to notions of
Supper time or bed time
And especially
Time to unwind.
My mind was already unwound enough
And it could never be reunited or relaxed
It was as it was.
There was no sharpness to life lately
And everything took on the familiar
Grey, blurred qualities I was used to.
This was how it felt to be out of love,
Out of life
And somewhere part worries or doubts.
there,
could you hear it?
It came in the slow,
monotonous,
ticking of the clock.
It left ashamed,
forgotten in the absolute silence of space
following that booming,
clicking,
noise.
Whether it came or not
was as irrelevant as her
claims of the same.
It did not matter now
and would not matter later,
but that's true of everything.
No revelation there.
No unshrouding of mystery,
only a compounded problem,
and another averts their gaze,
afraid in a soul-paralyzing manner,
keep walking.
Just,
keep walking.
It's too big a problem,
it's too big a battle.
Keep walking.
The clock ticks,
the jump to something real,
the clock ticks,
the jump to
anything at all,
the clock ticks
anything…
the clock ticks,
at all…
the clock ticks.
I met her somewhere,
when life was happening,
and she was in between the lines,
the only place where I knew how to read.
There's a broken piece of the past,
floating around in your distant future
awkwardly lodged into your present;
it brings with it a series of,
ridiculous notions,
a time for,
rebirth brought on by,
death,
a new chance.
An old life,
breathes again,
stronger,
fiercer than before,
it's hollowed out,
and the holes feed the fire.
The lonely hours,
after conversation died,
crawl through my ears;
a vacant, dead space.
Something shimmers,
ghosts just out of sight;
a chilling memory,
a phantom feeling,
or a brief hallucination.
The quiet hours,
where transport trucks pass,
filled with the tools to stupify a nation,
or the liquid to smother, choke, burn life.
The dead hours,
a piece of sanity chips away,
under the chisel of self-doubt,
falling down an endless drain,
leaking with earwigs, sewer bugs,
and all the poison memories
of the ones who got away.
Toxic aftermath,
an east-side story with west-side actors,
believe the hype, smoke and mirrors,
it's the best you'll get in the theatre of life.
The sound of fake birds thunder overhead,
above all of the fake mustangs and jaguars;
only the crunch of bone and pain is real now.
A shadow is spreading in my heart,
viral by nature,
an infection feeding off my memories,
swelling my chest.
Blood leaks out with love,
while hope struggles to hold on,
a seemingly endless battle
I no longer own my heart,
and truth be told,
I haven't owned it in years.
It's been sold to the highest bidder,
time and time again;
the person too intoxicated to understand,
and willing to show me the most affection,
a double entendre of failure.
The auction's up,
and the bets are being placed;
an over-anxious auctioneer,
a lonely prize.
The neon life;
tweets, posts, blogs, status updates,
friends, music, movies and video games,
sports, jogging, working out, dancing,
poetry,
nothing works for long,
and it shouldn't.
Life is meant to be tackled had on,
hit your bruised forehead again,
on the same dull, white brick wall,
from school of old and the office of new,
until you need a release.
What release?
none.
Create as you will,
nothing will avoid the end,
not even your art can buy time.
A shadow is spreading in my heart,
viral by nature,
an infection feeding off my memories,
swelling my chest.
Blood leaks out with love,
while hope struggles to hold on,
a seemingly endless battle
I no longer own my heart,
and truth be told,
I haven't owned it in years.
It's been sold to the highest bidder,
time and time again;
the person too intoxicated to understand,
and willing to show me the most affection,
a double entendre of failure.
The auction's up,
and the bets are being placed;
an over-anxious auctioneer,
a lonely prize.
The neon life;
tweets, posts, blogs, status updates,
friends, music, movies and video games,
sports, jogging, working out, dancing,
poetry,
nothing works for long,
and it shouldn't.
Life is meant to be tackled had on,
hit your bruised forehead again,
on the same dull, white brick wall,
from school of old and the office of new,
until you need a release.
What release?
none.
Create as you will,
nothing will avoid the end,
not even your art can buy time.
Andy Veilleux 