A whitespace hangs above,
Like a glistening sheet of snow,
A masterpiece of creation,
Meaning nothing, but everything!
The science of it is only distraction,
A whimsy for man’s entertainment,
Drawing snickers of self-aggrandizement,
For we are only pieces in a game.
On any day the whitespace can change,
As a black piece joins the game,
A player of lies and misdirection,
An empty vessel of disruptive temptation.
The black piece coerces bad choices,
With fragrant, sparkly baubles,
Laying mouse cheese on every square,
To snap, trap us into his burrow.
Ronald Whetsell's Creative Writing and Poetry Blog 