it always disappears.

once again

my canvas is empty

the lines fade

as soon as they are born in me

before i even pick up my brush

and drown the thin horse hairs in ink

a few ripples evade my song

making them muddled and unvoiced

they disperse like

crystals of water onto a boiling steam

and i wonder why

its still white, this page

and yet i feel not sad

the darkness in me is intact, and yet

i cannot let go of my own sense

of perfection.

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