The blank page is intimidating.
Makes me think of my life and how I want to fill it.
Electric substance firing energy into the ethers,
creating this earth, in my mind.
What do I create?
Sometimes smooth, flowing scenes of animals roaming freely in jungles,
of whales and dolphins communicating deeply about beauty,
leaving trails of rainbows as they leap,
of dogs each having a loving human to rely on unconditionally,
the way they know how to love.
It's delightful filling the blank this way.
But is it real?
Should I stop the fantasy? Instead observe what happens
as children die, as animals are killed for fun - an exclamation of superiority,
as insanity prevails in warped Darwinian interpretation.
Atrocities, so many, keep repeating.
It's daunting, the blank. Nothing.
Its emptiness full of possibility.
A paradox of sorts inviting polarities of
kindness, its absence
to fill it.
And I do each day, much depending
on how I angle it, where I stand,
what colors I chose.
(Submitted to Dverse Poets.)