Written

A sheet blank,

Waiting on the precipice,

Edgy, anxious,

Ode to a Nightingale by John Keats:
A blank sheet beautifully inscribed

To be inscribed.

She worries.

What lines would mar,

Her pristine emptiness?

What tattoos of words,

Tap out the thoughts?

What ink will drape,

Her form, so shy, so open?

Will it be the mundane, the common?

The serviceable blue, black or red?

Or more enchanting rainbows,

Would dreams draw?

A chronicle – dashing and brave.

Or humdrum lists of lives daily?

A picture, delicate and strong,

Or, moody verses rage?

So, she stands waiting,

Hoping, dreaming praying.

But when a wind blows her away,

She upon herself looks,

And lo! She finds herself,

Written.