The blank page waits for randomised scribbles,
Giving opportunity for it to reflect what it's become
So that creator can work with harmony to make form
Out of formlessness, structure out of chaos,
As the balance of left and right, top and bottom
Starts to make sense in the mind of someone
Not yet there, but willing to become someone
Also made out of nothing, and remaining just that,
Almost fatalistically responding to what happens.
 
But then comes the moment of dawning:
It really is something - and so am I,
Though someone else sees something else,
And I'm once again left wondering what's what
And who am I.  
 

September 2024.