Its emptiness is an invitation
Sent to my pen; my own performing stage.
I see all this white like the perfection.
And the game is to line up chosen words
That together flow fluid like a river
And create, out of nothing, my own world
In which flowers exist during winter.
The ink is like the roads to the places
In me to which I take you on tour.
You might explore my heart or mind, traces
Of my past, projects - Hopes or things obscure.
But the hardest in writing lines is that
They’ve got to be beautiful as the white...