He was paper

Sheets of paper
Unlined and clear
No crease marks or lines of fear
Stark white, like the palest of skies
Crisp like a night fairy
Sharp as a crude blade

Mulled over by murmuring hands
Hovering over his smoothness in fright
So white, so vast they’d say

He was a  white sheet of paper
Ready to be dipped in ink
Carved into words, never to be crushed
Bread for struggle, for violence untamed
Born to be used
For words and abuse,
for stealth and for cowardice,
for love and for  anger
But mostly to express

for he had nothing to wonder

He was my paper
my favourite kind of paper
Found in every store

But always out of stock

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