White glares up, unbolted, pure.
No marks mar the empty page
It echoes the empty canvas of my own.
What story can live when no tale it tells?
Seconds flee, chased by time.
The pencil seeks a tale that’s just right.

Perhaps a hero, who strives to right
The evil which tries to kill the pure.
But in the end there’s no escape, for time
Determines his final line, his ending page.
No, his story any pen can tell.
I need something original, a story of my own.

Imagine a king who with a word can own
All he sees, as is his right.
But he wants what he cannot tell,
A simple one, but brave and pure,
Who’s eyes he reads like lighted page.
Great love, and old, but I need something from my time.

Well, then, a boy who sells his time
To buy what none but death can own.
White lines march ‘cross a whiter page.
The darkness soothing, “It’s all right.”
They all still think him simple, pure.
His truth I don’t know how to tell.

A different view I can tell,
The man who’s lost alone in time.
Waves reformed him, smooth and pure.
Now seas from land his own,
No longer knows he left from right…
A tale for a different page.

What’s wrong with the empty page?
Silence every tale tells.
This lowly hand can’t tell the right.
Perhaps today is not the time.
Each day a story of its own
But after telling, are they pure?

The truth to tell of any time
The right one never is our own.
Put myself on page? I’d rather leave it pure.