We went on from a confessional to husk
On a yellow paper, devoid of inner stuff.
We somehow aspired to be bird-like free
At the end of season, our inner thoughts
Away from it, from the latency of a night.
Our words were better off without the night.
We infused them from the dark of a soul .
As they went in and went out in the hole.
The afternoon resounded with their thuds
As we closed our eyes in pretended nap.
Where we sat there was hardly a difference.
All our husk turned out to be life’s content.
“Language accepts the writer as its host, it feeds off the writer, it makes him a husk. There is something uncanny about good writing — uncanny the singing that comes from certain husks. The writer is never nourished by his own work, it is never satisfying to him.
“From Uncanny singing that comes from certain husks” -quoted from Brain Pickings