Poem of the Blank Page — by Belle Green

Your verse is unpretentious, very appealing.
I could picture myself in it as a musical metaphor,
a witness to the way the formality of white maneuvers
itself blushing over snowy rage; I the traveler in the
nostalgic vessel of your short stories, induced into the
creative form of your wit for the pure sake of having
something beautiful to sing about.

My heart is my own but it bleeds out over ivory
light, creating blue marble fragments over the density
of print that trails slowly in violet sleeves down the
page into conversational elements where extraordinary
richness claims the voice as autobiographical, belonging
to the hour where mountainous shores catch falling
leaves in a brilliant discovery of Autumn.

You are my calmness enforced by moving sound,
personal are the lyrics that amplify stilted vision, making
it wider, wiser, with the humanity of your body of work.
I think you write like a god, earnest in your protection
and extremely courteous to your reader. My thoughts are
heard in a desire to be understood, as you pronounce each
word with ultimate importance.

I am the mirror of dreams you feature prominently, proudly,
without reservation. You are reasonable in your trust, careful
not to patronize, sparkling in your genius. The few superficial
differences we have enhance the plot, a side issue to the
atmosphere of ease, of comfort. I thought I would always be
something of a paradigm, destined to live in the world alone
yet yearning to see it with someone special.

I had the story in mind several years before I found you,
writing the book all by myself until the narrative went suddenly
dead on me.The notebook itself, still full of life, waiting for the
realization of promise, not believing in revisions that would kill
the originality of the write.Then you appeared when everyone
else failed me, when I had given up on myself, and you turned
all the natural curses into ambitious love.

I am murmuring past my own blank page now, rebuilding the
structure of my work with rebellion and passion, I the lead
character within the waves and dimensions of your dialog, happy
to have a particular purpose, one that responds more intimately
to the promise of your word, not worried about deletions or
being abandoned, left exposed without expression. I have found
my tone in the air of the relevance you have given me,
where every single touch, every syllable, counts.

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