Colored or white, crumpled or smooth,

Pages alight, with words running crude,

Words which can heal and tears of joy bring,

Or sting so to break, a heart once strong, no more can sing.

Pages give glory, to writers great or small,

Speaking truth on lines or not at all!

Harken we swear by black and white,

Pages are gifts to man’s lonely plights.

In darkest hours, one sits and dwells,

Brooding over pages as they swell,

With treacherous words, as valleys and bogs,

Danger lurks as the hand crosses the word ‘love.

On this plain of thin sheet grain,

A writers’ pain is poured in vain,

Searching the strip for the words to appear,

The page ends with splattered tears.