Blank
The blank page calls me
to all of its natural whiteness.
Eerie and ghostly
it craves fulfillment.
My sad blank mind
lies helpless before it.
Empty and uninspired
it lacks direction.
Where do we go from here?
Can we co-exist?
The page and I
we feed each other.
With the words, the ideas,
and hopefully the art.
With the means of creation
and the mechanics of sharing.
But, in this drought of imagination
when words, ideas, and certainly art
are as dry as a California hillside
perhaps, a wildfire would bring new life?
If there is a seed of flair
beneath the surface debris
can the page and I set match
to rubble and clear new fields?
Will the rain come in time
to save us both from extinction?
Will we be able to nurture
the seedlings growth?
Can the page and I
grow separately
without growing apart?