The Idea of a Poem

Sore ghosts reach the heart of my writing hand

Haunting down words as each letter crumbles–

Into the pale-skinned page before me,

Ants march on the tips of my fingers with haste,

Bees sting every thought in the colony of my head,

And the idea of a poem is still cocooned–

Disturbed by flies who mumble nonsense,

Like modern songs to my ears.

Seddik Jelouane