On the stillness
Of the lake lies
A blanket of
Blankness.
Birds are not
Allowed here.
Not stones.
Nor tones.
It's not like
The blank of
Canvas or
A paper.
Where you
Can paint
Or write.
This blankness
Is self-imposing.
Life-consuming.
Colors die here.
Often, things
Are forgotten.
They fall within
Themselves.
They implode,
To have themselves
Erased here.
Sometimes
It's the dark.
Sometimes the
Eerie silence.
Can be oblivion
Or the blinding
White.
It can be you too,
Even me.. on
Those numb
Lonely nights.
When we lay dead
On that thin line,
Not knowing
Whether we're
Awake or asleep.
Dead or alive.