For The Blank Page

Obscure white crippled ball, what do you have for me ?  The possibilities infinite but the truth far less.  I unfold it, nothing.  Turn it over, nothing again.  I smooth out the creased material.  The blank page was once alive, now wasted.  With neither word nor image you are but conveniently arranged cellulose pulp.  Your possibilities cut short by a narrow mind, your legacy aborted.  Where nothing exists, there is potential.  Potential for something of the utmost value and substance to the most trivial of trife.  What means nothing to one could mean everything to another.  A page may endure when neither thoughts nor memories can.  It may pass a thousand hands without recognition, but even then it is still there, still possible, waiting.  It deserves a mark, a purpose, a chance to be great, even if only for a second.  Denial of potential is the only true waste.