The Blank Page
My pen so consistantly mars this page
so convenient that each word
connects another to itself so that one may not
feel the full brunt of that fresh page's animosity towards it.
Together they string,
being drawn down the page until it is turned.
On to mar a new page,
with a bastard family of words.
Through the pen, on to paper,
for someone (or for no one) to read through the ages
Until both I and the page disintigrate
and become the dust from whence we both came.
When the pen-drawn lines fade
and this paper yellows, I too, will fade-
Hopefully knowing that I have marred someone's page
with a litter of bastard children words
that will keep them linked to myself-
so that I will not feel the animosity of that
blank page.