Against the balance of society,
opposing the nature and time,
the blank page- awaiting for this long,
meets the first drop of ink of life.
Word are formed, written down one by one,
the waiting period that passed,
never spoken off, just left to the wind.
Expectant is the page, eager is the pen,
only the warm flesh on them knows,
as it trembles and shivers at the unknown.
Never once does the sheet flip-
turning over to another,
Never does the cartridge run out-
filling out for bits lost,
its the time for the play to play-out,
until it reaches a fork to chose once more.
As the mud beneath the soles,
carry the weight of the memories made,
they define and develop the man who walked,
never to join the story he ought to make.