The Voice of the Imagination

It was a blank piece of paper
Anything to a creative mind
Overflowing with possibilty

At first, one crease
Then, a fold
Another crease soon follows
More folds appear, increasing in complexity
It begins to take shape

Wings spread
Nose balances
Tail straightens
The airplane is ready for flight

It soars through the sky
Relishing in its freedom
Breathing the cool air
Loops, rolls, twirls
The plane masters them all
Nothing is above, nothing is too high
Anything, everything is possible



It was a blank piece of paper
An unpainted canvas
A masterpiece yet to be

The shiny new box of crayons
Shades of blue, green, yellow
And red, and orange, and violet
More colorful than any rainbow
And just begging to finally be used

One, two, three lines
A tree appears, maybe a house
Surrounded by hand-drawn flowers
The yellow crayon sun smiles down
On such a beautiful garden
Next to the field stands a small child
Her skin and clothes are a purple-ish hue
This self-portrait of the young artist
Is also smiling wide

The finished artwork
Worthy of the fridge
A few weeks of fame, and honor
If its lucky, the picture is framed
Immortality
If only for a while



It was a blank piece of paper
Whole and uncut
Perfect, but its purpose unfulfilled

Only a few folds
Until the scissors come
Slicing through it with ease
And delicate care

A few cuts here, a few there
It looks different now
But the creation's true wonder is still hidden within

Time to unfold
A true replica of nature's unique beauty
Six-pointed shape, and pure white color
The snowflake that never melts



It was a blank piece of paper
The voice of the imagination
Transforming an idea
Into this poem





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