A Perfect Page Is Empty
A perfect page is empty
Purposefully left blank
Of lines there are but plenty
Yet no owner there to thank
No pen soils the paper
All thoughts are left unwritten
Left fruitless is much safer
No idea has been litten
The pages slowly yellow
As the ink starts to gray
Nothing there to echo
No reason for delay
The paper curls slowly
As the man picks up a pen
A single phrase left lonely
Without soul, what then?
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