The Blank White Page

There it is again — 
 those awful rough-hewn uneven stairs 
 leading on up to the blank white page
Open up!
 Open up!
What sharp stab would see the skies open up?
 What torment to fill rivers to overflowing?
 Where is it—that elusive silken heartstream of black gold? 
No- only these seemingly endless brittle chains, 
 these illusive seriphine silhouetted brambles 
 tangle underfoot
Tripped up and fallen
 with only bloodied hands left to pry and parse
 gather and grasp to gain only an inch 
 upward to some invisible peak!
Instead of the sound of windspeed 
 there is only clacking and clattering upon 
 these lifeless thorn-choked ungrounded steps
Steps as if to step, as if to be bound for
 other than nowhere

Atop the other side 
 the stream rushes with abandon 
 and claims victory over every rock and tree
 over every crag and bluff
 proudly cascades and sweeps into
the foothills to amen in the valley below

Can you see where we are — 
 how far we’ve come?
The world’s now laid out before us — all ours
 from cities wide to mystery’s forest
as together we watch it emerge
 the end of this 
blank white page

What have we borne and what now to kill
 as the next empty promise begs to fulfill?

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