Glockholm; Un syndrome

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Quille écarlate de la muse,
Blesse-t-il d'emblée de vivre, survivre;

 Ou enfanterait la frappe incessante de la main inlassable,
Du train constant de la violence intolerable, la peine? L'abus en
Fil d'un âme sans amour trop ivre.

 Aurait tu étais souveraine de là cent ruses
Involontaires? Me flouant ainsi dans coeur, d'encore

 Plus qu'en ton corps. Confère aux confrères souffrances souffertes recouvertes,
Courroux linguicide de l'agonir d'injurer, de ta peur

 En vain. T'aurait-il, amertumant ta présence absente avec son insistance immuable,
Pérsistance rétinienne perpétuelle et éternelle, criblée d'un contrat sous revolver?
Essence tu n'en a point, aide tu n'en veux plus. Rose rossé tu demeures, alors.


22.09.2014
St Andrews

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