The Blank White Page
There it is again —
those awful rough-hewn uneven stairs
leading on up to the blank white page
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
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?