White Paper

It is past 3 am,
this is the time
when the words I can trace on the paper,
makes sense.

But, today it seems
they are upset with me.
Everything I write is drifting away,
every word (a cocoon) turning into a butterfly.
Leaving the scent of the ink, and
flying out of the window.

No traces are left off, even a dot.
The paper is as white, as the moon that sits in the sky
the tale now remains stuck inside.
Perhaps, it only belonged to my head.