A pen in my hand,

I stare at the book,

The pages blank yet,

No ink marring its beauty,

The pristine plainness,

The white stillness,

Happy it should be.

But a trace of sadness I sense,

As it speaks out,

Asking me,

Begging me,

And imploring me,

A story,

A few lines,

A few odd words,

At least a dozen characters,

Anything to cure its dullness,

The cheerless colourlessness,

The sad loneliness,

But I bow my head,

And murmur my meek apology,

For impotent it is,

The pen in my hand,

As I stare at the book,

Its pages blank yet.