COMPLETE

An empty book waiting to be inked,

Never infiltrated, the story didn’t commence with.

Pages untouched, never turned before,

An absence marked a tale that didn’t unfold.

A signal every now and then,

Hope was traumatized with hide and seek.

Empty, riddled with constant uncertainty,

Devoid of sight, will the story elude this eternity?

Relentless, the will doesn’t budge though,

Long nights give the hint, it shall come hitherto.

But the writing will someday erupt alive and breathe,

Maybe the moment she enters, the book will be complete.