Empty pages

Open to the sky

Unmarked and ageless

They bear no mark or line

Their white expanses

Perhaps will one day hold

An epic novel

In text so big and bold

Or perhaps the scrawling

Of a playful child

Or perhaps the poring

Of a scholar mild

Or perhaps they’re destined

To lay so blank and stark

Unwritten always

Until the world goes dark

Or perhaps a faerie

Will find them thus unused

And absently fill them

While she so softly mused

Or perhaps a kitten

His paws all dipped in ink

Across the empty pages

He will so cutely slink

Or perhaps they will be

Swept into a fire

And burn so very brightly

Flaming dance upon the pyre

Or perhaps they have been

Employed all along

To write this very poem

To write this very song

Empty pages

Open to the sky

Their words immortal

For poems never die.

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