A page, as fresh and unmarked as the skin of a new born babe,
’Tis a symbol of pure potential that can be filled with imagination boundless,
For it is a clean slate awaiting to be filled with one’s creation,
Which never can be wasted even when it’s deemed a mess.
Even a page one may consider to be trash bound,
Has had epochal affects on your journey through this life,
It’s existence at one moment was your best attempt,
Before you tossed it like a steak stabbing knife.
‘Fore the moment you tossed it you learned, you grew,
You adjusted your way of viewing what you had created,
Thus evolved your thoughts on whatever you were doing,
And on the cycle of that page you have at least now contemplated.
On the flip side a page can hold secrets, never a soul to be told,
They can become great record holders ~ of any linguistic,
The stage for an artwork famed or privately pulchritudinous,
Part of a great story or idea mapped out so fantastic!
A page need not even be marked to fulfil its roll so often inconspicuous,
Many make sculptures and origami creations mind blowingly amazing,
From a humble piece of paper blank, though often from a tree majestic,
This quintessential being of potential can send one’s mind a blazing!
Yet still we see a page as a disposable resource,
Something to just use once and throw into a bin,
Rarely consciously thinking of the being it once was a part of,
Or the overwhelming state we have thrown this planet despicably in.
So perhaps we should all take a solitude sobering moment,
To be grateful of the sacrificial product of trees,
How we can honour their being through use of this paper page,
Rather than mindlessly doing with it whatever we happen to please.
The Poetic Life 2.0 