Blank, blank, and nothing there but endless white,
Intimidatingly unfillable
Stretching forever out into the light
An aching record of the possible,
Convertible into whatever form
An all-aspiring mind might yet conceive;
Prepared, inviting, waiting for the storm
Of pure creation, and eager to cleave
To any mote of inspiration that
Might float down from on high, open to take
Any impression; visually flat
But ready to be reared. What could I make
To justify my use of such a space?
I might create, but then I would erase.
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