Poetry

White

Stark white.

 

Not, as they say,
shades of gray, fog, mist,
nor flooded eyes or
trembling fist.

 

Just white.

 

Weary existence
in the barren, the nether,
no sun, no clouds,
no life, no weather.

 

Only white.

 

A single drop
of ink bleeding
black on the blank
page, joyful fleeting.

 

Stained.

 

Words pour like desert
rainfall drenches,
quenching thirst
and filling trenches,
painting the landscape
one word at a time
in structure and rhythm,
description and rhyme.

Solitary recluse
in the magical mind,
a world from the white
for a writer to find
and share, perhaps?
This view to behold,
lives unfolding,
stories untold
with pen and with courage
and broad stroke, a door.
An invitation,
nothing more.
A hope to print
in permanence
before soul’s faded
remembrance
at Reaper’s cold hand
to be nevermore.
But with each rejection
the parchment tore
little by little,
a little more.

 

The white.

 

Returns and encroaches
at every edge to erase
the contours of
this beautiful place.

 

Empty white.

 

Deleting words
to restore barren nether,
no sun, no clouds,
a severed tether.

 

Only white.

 

 

written 02.06.18

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