The pure white page is spoilt now
By markings from my pen.
And with each flying penstroke,
I mourn what could have been.
Though paper lines were only made
For marks of ink to fill,
There’s something sacred in it blank,
Alone, mysterious, and still;
Replete with silence
Like the dark’s replete with dreams,
With all one thousand million words
Deep hidden in its seams.
How dare I now, with tainting pen,
Decree which words shall live
Upon this newborn slate?
What god could be so bold?
What arrogance of mine decrees
These words deserve to be told,
And banish silence?
Of ink and pens and flying words
We must not be afraid,
But weigh each word for the worth of its own,
For silence, broken, cannot be remade.