J’écoutais une émission sur Hewingway et l’écriture, et…

Standing still, she rages
Feeling and unfeeling, pulsing and unfolding
Through time

She knows not what the storm is
Errant metaphor in the sea of longing
The great vastness of meaning

She knows not where her soul goes
Fragments of it scattered in the oft-occurring question
Of having a soul at all

She knows not if the words are
Anything of substance, feeble means of communicating
Some pointless quiet chaos

Noiseless, she unravels
Combing through the pieces
That slip and ebb away

Waiting for the echoes to die
Head silent, heart asleep
Finally laid to rest.

Miracles happen.

10 septembre 2018