On my blue lined writing pad, a tiny insect walks,
it appears lost and hesitates before crossing a line,
lost in this vast wilderness of the unwritten.
I try to blow it off the paper, but somehow glues
itself to the paper and will not budge.
I cannot touch it, tiny as it is, I will surely squash it.
Nothing I can do for now, leave it to its own devise,
go watch TV.
When I returned, it had gone, a sheet
of paper with nothing written on, is a lonely place
and has no story to tell.
