My Monochrome

I understand what it is to do a white painting.

Just solid white.

The theory behind it is

That you have set up the canvas

And anything is possible on it.

The canvas is primed

For whatever will be drawn on it.

 

It is the same as a blank page to me.

Yet, I can stare at it

And get the same

Soothing effect

Of not having to put the subconscious torture

Of another word on the white paper.

 

Yet, torture I must

For a writer has only one canvas—

A blank page.

A painter has as many as there are colors.

Solid white, the painter makes it

So they can put to work and make something

Beautiful.

 

Me, the soothing effect of the blank page

On my screen

I cannot communicate

Except to write a poem about it.

 

It’s been done several score dozen of times.

The mind whispers.

It breathes.

The frankness of it all

Is that I have written works…

I have prophesied.

When Jonah’s failed

We called it repentance.

When mine failed

I called it a hallelujah.

 

Mind me when I say that the blank page here

Is cathartic because it can be anything.

How do I know there is a God?

Because there is.

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