Marvelous things, blank pages. It's hard to write without them. So much potential, so much to offer. So much reason not to notice blank pages.
Blank Pages
Blank pages.
A sea run dry.
Shorelines unzipped blaring at the sky,
as if to cry out against it.
What did the sky have to do with it?
To be filled is not the only use for spaces.
Blank: the word thinks for us.
Unused, undone, un-learned-from.
Pages left unwritten are no proof of not writing.
The life-trails left in the sand of the sea aren’t a lack of ink.
Stripped, torn, beaten, worn; the pages bind and grind and burn.
Holding itself so high the sky cries “blank” at the frozen sand.
Silent as the once sea stones, blank pages flash back and grin.
There’s room for that on
blank pages.
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