Yep, that’s what I’ve been doing today. Filling in spaces.
[via Le Divan Fumoir Bohémien]
To My Notebook
Whether all the flowers have fairies, I canot determine, any more than I can be sure whether all men and women have souls.
~ George MacDonald, “Phantastes”
These lines that stare me in the face
All want to ask the same old questions,
But I won’t let them. I’ll fill them with
Scrawny, untidy letters until they’re bloated.
Until they choke on my handwriting and –
As they say – “expire”, none the wiser.
These lines – I’d like to dissect them,
To stab them with a paper knife
And see what’s inside: whether blood,
Or bones, or sticky entrails. Whether
They have souls, whether there are more lines
Inside them, more letters, more ink, more lead.
But perhaps I shall never know – unless
They start walking like men. But then –
They’d probably force my mouth open
And shove balls of cellulose down my throat,
Until I choke and die. Or they’d
Strike my chest open with stones
To see what I’m made of: whether
Blood, or lines upon lines. Whether soul.