Full white reminds me,
All at once characters dance and cry.
Someone yells from the side, "What have you done?"
I reminisce of black ink on white pages.
It all comes together.
Before long, a pen hangs over the paper,
Stroking a rhythm.
As though a pen moving from side to side could somehow bring the vivid images to life.
A few more murmurs ripple through the air.
All but not lost, just hidden with care.
The first mark will begin my blessing.
It's all on the time, he asks you to move
Like a game, I wait, until he tells me it is time.
One stroke after another gives birth;
but just as soon a thin black line brings death.
A deep breath suggests another attempt not met
I smile and sigh and bid my characters farewell until next time.
White remains white with only a shadow of stains.
And with the drop of a pen shallow footsteps leave.
