I write so that poisoned water
may be drunk.
Chantal MAILLARD
It is there,
watching you boastful
from its pedantic watchtower
of stacked pages.
The litany
of blank pieces of paper
makes dance
the letters in your mind
without rhyme or reason.
The turbid synapses of your neurons
is disconnected,
there are no more speeches
neither courses nor resources,
not even prose
or wrinkled poems,
those which in their duel
make their way
towards the cluster of drafts
where has finished
your next and always remote book.
But obsessed,
you try to rummage
on squeaky hinges
of your memory,
fed up with disposables
and useless files
full of everyday garbage,
that does not allow you
to find the word,
the trope,
the different adjective,
the verse, the verb,
the image that prevents you
throw back into the fight
with the emptiness
-ground of reasons-
of the elusive blank paper
so full of meanings.