This Blank Page

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.

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