Tuesday, November 6, 2018

Sheikha A.writes


I have been reading an ample 

of other people’s words, feeding off
of them, nursing the convalescing
remains of my wherewithal muse.

I have been warning a heedful
of this extinction, telling myself it’s over,
I have lived beyond the date of my course,
borrowed off of too many people;

I have been convincing myself
of the time to lay my wanton pen to rest,
but these fingers have disjointed; 
tissues have unsynchronised.

I have been waiting for the embalming
I have become aware that noiseless echoes,
fistfuls of sand and undecipherable shadows
do not tremble my grave:

a virgin mess of unprinted works.


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