Notes About The Poem
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HERE IT WAITS
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The blankness hums, a quiet storm,
a field untouched, unmarked, unworn.
No ink has dared to claim its face,
no hand has rushed to leave a trace.
It breathes in margins, white as bone,
a silent sea where words have flown~
not yet, not here, but maybe soon,
beneath the eye of some pale moon.
What waits? A scream? A lover’s sigh?
The slow unravel of a lie?
Or just the wind that never stays,
ghosting through the empty graze?
The page won’t tell. It never does.
It laughs in pauses, hums in buzz.
Press your pen—then hesitate.
The story’s yours.
But here, it waits.
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