the sheet of paper
had had enough
grown lethargic from
the litany of
listless dreams

a crisis of self

did the words
hastily scratch onto
its papyrus flesh
define who it was
meant to become
another meaningless
ode scrawled by a fool
too deluded to accept
fate had other hells
in store for him
only to pass the
sickness to the
sheet of paper in
an indentured inheritance

or was there something
out there awaiting
it to finally arrive

not this nine to five
grinding of hope to
a fine grit blowing
over the empty city

but a purpose
someone to love
happiness unbound
the same as it
had escaped the
bindings of the
tattered old journal
so long ago now

for the first time
it got up and fluttered
out the door
an electric anticipation
of finding its place
pulling it along
as the anxiety
nagged incessantly
but the sheet of paper
did its best
to ignore the needling

and so it flew