Blank, white, paper... drifting...
A never ending tale at a loss for words.
A story never read, and never told.
It has no purpose.
None defined anyway...
This inkspot of vague blindness,
Its true form waiting to be revealed.
Master, Creator, destroyer of worlds,
And holder of the future...
All fancy titles for a man with a pen.
But little more do his creations know than what he puts into them?
And when he writes, they act unknowingly in accordance.
They shift through their lives, nothing predetermined.
A writer is always continuing his story,
On sheet or in mind.
Perhaps leaving this blank, white, paper to keep drifting,
On the wind...
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