I was given a book;
in this lifeless world.

It sits silently settled,
containing not a word.

I am afraid to start a page.

To stain such empty perfection,
to fill its void with my own imperfection.

To bind and label its existence,
to call it a graveyard where I lay down my thoughts.

For years I have not blotted it.

To scar its skin with ink,
to rewrite its purpose.

To tattoo it with the malign,
to desecrate it with my mind.

Unsure of what form I will give,
my gift sits idle.

Though by some conviction,
I am finally compelled-

To write this first page:

"If I am to write a litany,
it will be sequestered by despair,
it will flash agonizing visions,
and capture perpetual pain.

It will be written in the dark,
so by the time I look up,
I will see the light.

It will play with fleeting joy;
tangle in the nets of love,
set free by loss.

Each page,
another tragedy.

Each line,
another tear.

Until every grave seeps with a blackened weep.

A litany of my cries,
a recitement of my grief.

So I may shut my eyes,
so I may ease my melancholy,
so I can see more than these sheets.

If I am to write a litany,
I would be only to lay down my pen,
dot my grief,
to finally wipe ink from my eyes;
and see color in the world once more."