Ode to a Blank Page

A blank page — what is it now?

A screen, a space, a virtual vow?

A paper once, so tactile and true,

Now pixels and bytes, a digital view.

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My handwriting's bad, a scrawl, a mess,

Yet something in ink has a human caress,

An education of hand, a primitive form,

Now keys and screens are the norm.

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But what's an object, in this virtual age?

A file, a folder, a digital stage?

An object once tangible, solid, and clear,

Now fleeting and distant, yet oddly near.

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A blank page — trash? A container so small,

For thoughts, for dreams, it captures them all,

Yet so often discarded, lost in the noise,

A primitive medium, yet one of my choice.

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Since '83 I've typed, I've clicked,

Yet paper and pen still somehow stick,

A hardwiring in brain, a draw, a pull,

Not age, but humanity's biological rule.

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A child with paper, so simple, so free,

A tablet requires layers, complexity,

A blank page, once clear, now ambiguity reigns,

A paradox dancing, in digital chains.

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Is it the longing for touch, the ink, the feel?

That keeps me returning, that makes it real?

A blank page, an enigma, a virtual muse,

A symbol of life, in its many hues.

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A question, a wonder, a philosophical dance,

The blank page invites me, into a trance,

A container for thoughts, yet more profound,

A reflection of life's eternal, questioning sound.