to the end

Poem #111 from a series of poems drawn from the imagination and collected as: a Bachelard reverie.

Back to Bachelard and me – Introduction

came a day
for writing

pen in his hand
and with paper
he wrote himself

the small things
the love affair
the breaking

the things that
made him small
the morals he aspired to

the discovery
that losses
and joys
are the stuff
that is life itself

he poured his being
into the words

they grew


and at the end
at the
in conclusion
there was nothing left
of that life
to say


came a day
for reading

empty heart
and beaten
he took a page
and read

as he read
his eyes
glittered where they
caught the light

he came to feel
that he knew the plot
and the next thing
to be revealed
ahead of the page

he paced the room
as he pored
declaiming aloud

whole paragraphs

and when he reached
the part that should have read
the end
there was nothing there

no word was written
for he
had just

© Frank Prem 2017

Bachelard and me Poem #112: necessary preparations


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