A Blank Page Smokes a Cigarette

No ink, no words, just a page,
like a monk in a subway station
meditating on a subway map.
The sound of train wheels becomes the mantra.
All the answers live in the gaps —
the space between breath and explosion.
Silence is the loudest dissent.

Embers glow in the dim light,
each puff a contemplation,
as thoughts curl and drift,
dancing in the haze of possibility.
What stories linger in the margins?
What whispers hide in the folds?
The blank page, a canvas of hope,
craving the touch of a restless pen.

Echoes of laughter bounce off tiled walls,
the rush of life blurs the edges,
but here, in this quiet rebellion,
time slows to a heartbeat.
The world rushes by,
but beneath the surface,
the stillness grows,
a seed in the concrete.

Each moment stretches,
a deep inhale,
as the cigarette burns low,
its smoke weaving dreams
into the air,
a tapestry of unspoken words,
filling the cracks with possibility.

And in the end,
the blank page smiles,
its emptiness a promise,
a reminder that creation
often begins in silence,
where the loudest thoughts
are born from the void,
waiting for the spark
to ignite them into flame.