The blank page beckons us onward to see
the Formless take form in some poetry
the passing of moments inspired by Thee
their passage compounding Reality
But not just as author, or even deep sage
this image of ‘i’ness does itself gauge
something more holy, or hollow, no age
does reckon this Self
is just The Blank Page
The blank page knows all,
yet says nothing
could read an indictment,
charges could bring
and news of a life or death might fling
or psalms for beguiling our heart to sing
But no,
the blank page contains not a line
it waits and it watches with Patience Divine
its white Innocence is perfect form rhyme
encompassing all, non-limits define ~
