My verse is blank. No, really, it is empty.
Potentially substantiatable.
A haystack with no needle, no romance,
no hay, in fact. I only write because
I think my pen enjoys the touch of ink
to paper, as it spreads my thoughts again.
I cannot think. I concentrate on things.
They speak to me in foreign tongues and pull
away before I hear or see; or touch them
to handcraft paper - rough, with fibers gray.
But, time to stop, to self-examine briefly.
How did my verse, initially so blank
become half-empty first, and now half-full,
desirous so to break the fifteenth line?