Reincarnation

in the beginning,

just an empty blankness

born on the sore knees of torn trees,

beaten to a pulp, mashed, pressed, pulverized,

rolled flat, forced to withstand the pressure,

of living to be used,

far before glimpsing critical thoughts,

lines stamped blue onto faces and private parts,

convinced worthless without ink,

and the words fill it with meaning

tattooed with its reason for existence,

it knows who, why, where, it is,

then tossed, like so many remnants,

into a yellow bin, destined to be paper again,

stripped of ink, erased life,

but paper has forgotten all the wiggles and points

it once lived for,

no memory of its past lives,

now it waits, empty,

empty waiting,

and we are all waiting, waiting, waiting,

waiting patiently for the words to come

and be born again on the blank page