The Beauty of the Blank Page

The blank page is a field of snow
untouched by footsteps, pure and slow—
a silent breath before the word,
a sky where no bird has stirred.

It holds the hush of dawn’s first light,
the pause between the dark and bright,
a canvas stretched so taut, so wide,
it aches with all its might inside.

No ink has bled, no line has strayed,
no metaphor has yet been made—
just possibility, white and deep,
a world unborn, a thought asleep.

But press a pen—just once, just light—
and watch the void give way to sight.
The beauty’s not in staying clean,
but in the risk of what you mean.