This blank page, a snowdrift across worlds of words
That sink into white nothingness. Pens, swords
Fallen from their wielders in the heat of battle,
Leak blood ink in a haphazard fashion.
And vultures, in their own mess, straddle
The pickings in red absorption of passion.
This blank page mimics the white heat of pain
As the canal opens; closes in contraction.
Being comes through it, screaming with disdain
At its own awakening. Satisfaction
Comes from the toil but is not guaranteed.
The question is whether it’s condemned or freed.
This blank page consumes my darkest nightmares
With the image of itself, my greatest need.
When the monsters come it enfolds them, expels
Terror with a vampire lust that compels
The infection of my thought, this evil seed,
Into innocent minds – those without cares.
This blank page is the flag in a foreign trench
Tempting you to brave the gore and the stench,
To claim victory; become conquerors
O’er this destitute king and his followers.
Elated, soldiers fix bayonets and fly,
Yet when the enemy’s reach’d, ‘tis not joy, but a shrieking cry.
Ambush! The flag’s a lie; fooled this final time,
They learn how this world has neither reason nor rhyme.