The Scribe

I'm being visited more and more seldom

By respiration.

I can't breathe anymore -so I can't write therefore, I live no more.

And here I ask:

The portion of my air I did not breathe

(Since I was gone before the deadline)

Is it worth anything?

At least it could be given to the poor

(If this were possible)

But this is such an absurd parsimony

Of Nothingness.

And further on:

The thoughts I left unwritten

By whom will they be finished? Since grains of sand are not alike

How could a new pen different from mine

Resume the thread exactly from the point I ceased?

And I had just discovered

A handful of great subjects, themes.

I had already improvised - and it did work - my style

Who is the one who will decode my notes

Which I could never organize?

Is it then you who will give answer

To these simple, common sense questions

You Pure Nothingness?