A blank page carries
stark beauty
Words are but romantic
drivel
That blot and muddy
a masterpiece
Directionless they move in
swift vectors
Meaningless they preach with
false depth
In desperation they seek
an audience
To listen and cheer their
soft fantasy
Truth has no time for such
nonsense
There can be no expression of
one's soul
Only as Polaroids indistinct by a
light's brilliance
Holding but the memory of
substance
These lines and squiggles are
worthless
A pastime to convince one of
importance
They obscure and tether a
landscape
Unadulterated by man's feeble attempts
at truth.
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