The blank page lies open, Like a freshly fallen field of snow, Ready for me to leave my mark In mucky prints of ink; Dark across it's Virgin slopes
I have little issue with speaking the unspoken, But begin to falter in breaking the unbroken. The page is inscrutable; oppressively immutable, But it's inexcusable to deny its aspiration.
So I must bite my lip and gird my loins, Break the unbroken and spoil the unspoiled. But if I set off will I stumble? What if I fall? What if the penprints I leave across the field of my page go nowhere after all?
Well there are many fields, and many pages; And on this long journey; many stages. I roll in the snow and make a mess; Start with a word and see what comes next.
So just explore where the blank page leads you. It may not go where you expect.
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