Vestige of a Legacy

Why is this blank paper staring at me? It’s getting annoying, so I stare back, but the winner of this contest is already decided. Why is it getting under my skin? Possibly because by the 6th line of this verse I should be 4 stanzas in with its clean white face tattooed with erase marks, cross-strikes, carrots, every corner crammed with hastily scribbled paisleys While I’m still in the past, let me brandish my pencil, my sword, my key to awe-inspiring quatrains that would gallantly sing over the cacophony of world that ceaselessly screams While I’m still in the past, let me dive into my notebook after jumping off reality, sink to the bottom of the pool residing in my reverie and exhale bubbles of poems from a long gone memory While I’m still in the past, let me pen a letter on how flowers and paisleys and haphazard poetry can reconstruct the architecture behind crumbling synapses belonging to the nostalgia-devoted author of this eulogy whose last farewell to herself is a vestige of her legacy