Dying Voice









I’m finished
I can’t write anymore
What am I going to do with my life?

It’s three o’clock and I’m sitting at my desk
In front of me lies a sheet of paper
On it is written
Dying Voice

I struggle to understand the meaning of my words
but they claim that they were never mine
they belong to themselves

From the innocent whiteness of the page
they assert their independence
and accuse me of fraud

They tell me
it is impossible to understand
That everything is just as it appears to be


I'd always believed that I was the creator of my words
That in the act of writing I brought them to life
Made them a part of me

Patiently they explain
Anybody could have written them
It is they who are the creators of my reality

I look around me at the objects in my room
Everything I possess is silently present
They are right

My world belongs to words
Without their reality nothing exists
No illusions of past or imaginings of future

A great weight lifts from my heart
I realise that in reality
I am unreal