Blankness

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.