Sketchbook
The page is blank,
Pure and white.
It is smooth to the touch.
Oh, but one must be careful,
For the slightest touch could taint it.
A touch bears pressures and colors
Far too heavy for such delicate paper.
The touch would tamper
With its clean white plane.
Leaving it smudged,
Brown and oily.
Like soft new snow
Trodden into sludge
By quiet feet.
But
If a touch is made
With intent and passion.
Something truly wonderful
May come forth.
Colors and shades,
Lines and smudges,
Intermixing
To create
A roaring flame,
A tranquil forest,
A pained expression,
Or an untamable spirit.
As ideas and emotions
Crash across the page
Like a raging tsunami,
One must notice
The stark white
Being washed away.
The page is full,
The inspiration slows,
The creation ceases,
But only until
The page is turned
And another world,
Full of white,
Is revealed.