Word, Cried into Wilderness
by J. W. Cassandra
I am word, cried into wilderness;
My voice-body is carried by the wind,
It tears, pulls me about into scraps
And, my scraps the wind whirls around.
And if only would be any human
In the desert wilderness, in waste,
Hot sand, who does see seeing
And, hears hearing these scraps!
The wind whirls me around whistling,
My scraps, torn by it, will not bind,
They will be not united any more,
Into one voice-body, any more.
Voice-scraps do grate against ears
As meaningless sounds ever,
Their essence is not knowable any more:
I am, cried into wilderness, word.
27/11. 2019., by J. W. Cassandra
