The Point
The book is blank.
120 pages of nothingness.
Spiral bound, its wide-ruled lines
thirsty for ink.
The pen, narrow and black,
touches down.
A point, a line, a curve,
a letter, a word.
The tip glides silkily
on the cheap, abundant paper.
One word pulling the next
up a craggy, cold mountain.
Through baking red rock towering
to a deep cerulean sky,
Catching golden morning light streaming
through wavy window glass.
Pouring out a broken heart into a black abyss.
Crying loss in the infinity of hurt.
Swelling with new love,
vibrating with utmost tenderness.
Scrawling passion, deep red,
messily down the page.
Judgment upright on the blue lines,
seething self-righteous indignation.
Thick black anger ripping the page,
disregarding the lines.
Close the cover, cap the pen.
Make the bed, brush the teeth, feed the dog.
A job to do.
Yet worlds, universes crouch behind
that blank page,
Waiting for me
…to come back to the point.