to walk away from the page at all.
What hubris to think that in escaping,
the page would not follow,
dog your steps, and infect your mind.
Your empty page grows, mortal,
vacant and white,
pursuing you like the tomb you thought to escape.
Numb and smiling,
you have given in to bland busyness
while you tried, vainly,
to hold the past at bay,
the present in limbo.
What do you fear what Do you fear
A critic has been born in you
who cuts at your page with scissors
like a child run amok,
Your mind in fragments across time.
Her power grows while you thought to ignore her.
She has had her say and thinks she can win.
And yet, patient page has waited after all.
She has not accused you as you had thought.
But wise and implacable, has waited
For you to do that, entirely, yourself.
