We trade blank page for words
Dark scars slicing to and fro
Cutting so deep that erasure
Offers no true restoration
For the carving still cause ridges
In the white fibers

To know nothing leaves an empty sheet
One that can fold and fly
Unladen by inky scrawls
Bright and simple
Riding the air above
In a way, it is to be envied
I suppose

But dark pages
Stained with graphite
Have their own appeal
For filling a page offers less purity
But incites its fellows
Till a legion of pages,
Though stained,
Become a firm book

And while blissful planes soar
They must always land
On the worn but unyielding backs
Of those willing to sacrifice simple
And tattoo themselves
With the scars of wisdom
-Galwyn

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