Blank pages, how much potential they hold.
Upon them new worlds can bloom, stories unfold,
art can come into existence, new theorems can be born,
philosophies, musings, questions, and answers.
Blank pages, how much fear they hold.
Great yawning caverns, holding the author or artist at bay,
taunting the possessor, dare you touch me with marks or words,
knowing that once they take that first step the spell is broken.
Blank pages, how mesmerizing to stare at before you.
Each sheet is naked, daring to be clothed in words, symbols, and shapes.
What of the person looking upon them, what will they put onto those pages?
Joy, love, peace, perhaps. Or something darker.