Crinkles

By Misha Raj

There’s something dangerously magical

about blank sheets of paper.

The heady enchantment

of an unmarred surface,

with no lines to follow

and no margins to stay within.

The seamless white,

unsullied by crumpled beginnings

that hide in faint folds and flawed crinkles.

The intoxicating scent

of unexplored possibilities.

That float like a shimmering mirage,

not yet shattered

by inky strokes and deliberate direction.

The siren whisper

of perfect promises,

that teasingly flow through the ink in our pens

daring us to give them life

The unblemished purity

that calls to us

till we fill it with crooked words

and murky smudges

As we desperately channel

the hopes and dreams

that shimmered so enchantingly in the air;

yet look so disappointing in inky reality.

See, that’s the danger of blank sheets of paper;

they are only magical

When they are blank.

By Misha Raj