Fast-fallen, it shocks us when we wake,
blinding, alight, a white scream;
pure and primal, it has stopped time.
All sound has ceased, all vision
is held captive by this pristine page;
something cries out to be written.
Who dares to plant so much
as a foot to violate
this immaculate perfection?
And you, your flesh is flawless;
a mere fingertip caress might
affront its innocence.
Yet it invites me to touch, to disturb.
Once it is done,
there is no going back.
Copyright © Andrew John