The idea of being white,
Very pure and untouched.
Every bit makes bliss,
Letting in light,
Making things bright.
Sign of God,
Sign of heaven.
White the tranquil colour.
Unkempt by elements,
that bring the whiteness together.
Even a small tear invisible,
That paper when crumpled,
loses the value it holds,
Even though purity is afloat.
Roughness and bitterness,
Put together a lethal potpourri,
That can disdain simplicity,
With utmost perfection.
Who knew simplicity
Could become complicated.
When bruised so bad,
What happens is a story,
That will always remain silent.
It becomes a waste of space.
It becomes valueless,
even though it wasn't tainted.
Thinking colours would stain it,
So keep it aside was wrong.
The winds of fate always
take for granted,
sweeps the paper away.
It floats and flits,
Till the wind decides
to leave it alone.
But could it be used again,
The only answer left,
was its rebirth again,
like another a
blank sheet of paper.
If this was the case,
wishing for another
sheet of paper
in life is good enough...
