Papele, paper, papyrus.
Bleak aching for replete.
Canvas stretching, ad infinum,
loose, or bound, or beyond the cursor,
awaiting a journey, or a tight tome,
or steps for throwing a coup.
Place without existance,
depth without length,
until the conscribed illuminates
thyn Baudian screed.
Any gnash of ‘nemes could do,
but the paper deserves quality,
no matter its weight, or stock.
In your care, it shall be used, be useful,
bemuse your travails to bring concept to fore,
to bear, foreward, in angled tortured meter,
toward a premise, believed, but untold.
Still, it stands.
As eager as you animate it,
for what lays in store.
Be it common,
the words will ring,
will project, anamorphic,
if you present them,
whole and true,
to rest complete.
The page awaits.