A bond paper on the desk, full of
being white,
Is a young man that has not figured
out,
And so empty of thoughts or ink, in
a blink,
Uncertain of cadences leading to
where or nowhere.
Unknown where things could be, or
should they be,
Picks up and crumples paper, with
vigor,
Marching path forward to the trash
bin,
Securing a trashed future over there.
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