The Writer Died

Posted: May 29, 2017 in Existential Angst, Reflection, writing

I have slogged through a sewer
its walls crumbling to red clay
river shoals strewn with water lilies
a cave faintly lighted by their reflection.

I associated with dubious denizens
thinking they had literary merit
but I observed too closely
and what we see we covet.

I craved the differences between us
they were a new life
familiarity having worn mine out
I slipped into something else.

There was much ado about style
the things we did and how
how I became the subject
and I observed myself.

Stealing through the story
the writer died the subject lived
the ending was never to be a conclusion
and it wouldn’t have meant a thing.

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Comments
  1. stephanie says:

    must read many more times, I like where this takes me, I think 🙂

    Like

  2. the writer died the subject lived …. I especially liked this

    Like

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