A blank expanse stretched across the flat, like unscathed, snowy ground,
Yearning still for its promised adornment, pleading to be found.
A lightly clasped structure, aimed with ink, is eager for the rush,
To sleekly taint that sweet expanse with its simple, purposed brush.
Ebony hills, intent with new motive, roll gently, across their course,
Galloping rapidly for their mark with a strikingly uncanny force.
Their creator, with his dreams of expression and freedom and remarks too bold for his age,
Urges forth his creation, the sooty furrow, through the privations of each passing page.
Utterance and clause now conceal the snow like an unfamiliar bandage.
The blank is adulterated, yet unashamed of its curving, raven damage.
There is pride for the creator, though responsible he be for every staining word,
For his need is liberated, and his heart quite light; through his poem, he was finally heard.