PAGE; ME

A Page,

blank born
seagull white
A Black Hole
in cosmic strife;

On this Page
is the History of me
a refractive pane
of
transient imagery
Still life in moments
of emphatic fragility;

I flutter
Like Glaze paper,
Transluscent
In my
experiential
shelter;
Surviving its
On slaughter,
with a potent
Interior Filter...

I endure
Hues of the
finest Cartridge,
Metaphors of
sketchy strokes
and
Color ridges,
in the ripples of
Endless
Charcoal Bridges...

And Sometimes,
I am just a
Tired Old Newspaper,
a faded print Cover,
Life span of a day
then thrown away
crumpled
and jangled
in a million disarray;

bits lying
scattered in an
open Rain gutter;

struggling to
ride the wind
above the
Juniper trees
Chatter;

While
a few shreds
float listlessly
In my Mother's Fetter.