The blankland island
an empty slate
a clean plate on which
to set our store.

We wore our modesty on Sundays only
when the bible belted our trews and
we used each week to seek out
adventure and places to fill our
imaginations,thrill us,our
determination was trancelike as
we danced by the lake in the soft
glow of Moonlight and
Midnight reached out with its fingers
to touch us,and
we, with no fuss crawled back into the island,
under the sand where our hands met the sun
which had set, and it warmed while we kept,places where we had slept 'til the great one called forth and we ventured once more into the losing of daylight and the beginnings of lines creased our vision of time.
On the Island where the passage of time is a message to read through,and the marble pillars of temples are something we see through.

What is meaning to men when the sea swallows them whole?
We have read all the tales,smashed our ships,burnt the sails and what would we need of more tales wrote to read when we make our own story.
The empty slate remains clean
the plate,
pristine,
Our store is the core of our being.