Blank

blank, the thirsty page
my eyes rest upon.
its ravenous stare
eagerly awaits the
caress of my words,
be it fingers gliding
over keys or hand
dragging ink soaked pen.


this page, the mirror
that only states what
it has been given
and reflects outward
all of what was
heaved from the inward.


each letter, each syllable,
each line laid down
to pull my soul out
and onto the table below.


there my reflection swims
in the literary pool,
an oracle of my own fate.


showing where my
shadow has blackened the
earth, my past has cast
the line and lure through
my present image in the pool
to fish the future feast.


and round it goes for
us all in words in print
and voices softly spoken,
as simply circles form
whenever my pen bends
and touches the thirsty
page with its blank...