the writer, by Britta Benson

Picture credit: Britta Benson

I’m ploughing my way through ‘Love in the Time of Cholera’. I still love my blackout poetry project. Today, I did another four pages and I want to share this one with you.

It amused me to ‘find’ this writer on the page.

the writer

the writer mingled with love,
toasted memory

lack of maturity
avoided reality,
then, 
surrendered to truth
and slept

body and soul,
growing old,
little by little
in their own time

mists
against the certainty
of death

oldest memories,
rain,
light

the end could not reach
the spot that itched

a strange sensation
of not feeling

a sad smile