He says he is working on a book
and cannot be disturbed, for weeks
he has been lonely in his attic room
and every now and then a curse
is heard, a sigh escapes,
but the rest is silence.

Sometimes the window opens
as he throws out his thoughts
on paper sheets that flutter in the Autumn air
away to some far destiny unknown
and weeks go by
and years move on
and he’s still there. The writer.


Comments on: "Writer" (3)

  1. Oh, yes, I relate. And makes me think of the writer, Colette’s father. He would spend hours in his study writing his memoirs … for years and years, but never showed anyone what he had written. When he died, the family discovered … all the notebooks were blank. Love this one, Ina! XO

  2. And he feels he deserves a capital W.

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