Stalemate

What is the point of pen to paper If there is nothing to paper the pen? I gnaw at the thought It splinters to dust The sentence won't surface again The edge of the page Keeps a ledger of ghosts I owe it a line Not a fight The margin waits open An outstretched palm I let the silence write I circle the thought but it will not set It scatters each time that I press I draft then erase Like I'm lifting a blade Afraid of how deep it might dress The current stays frozen Refusing to thaw A stalemate of ink and of will Until I accept that The blank is a pulse The page and I hold still

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Sorelle

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