the page

gentle goes the rhyme
easy upon the page,
the stroke of the pen,
the crusting, the ink,
in such a way,
woven deep,
ingrained within the fiber,
as it dries,
i turn the page.
bitter sweet,
laid down in a predicted
yet moreover
trite, mundane way.
wrapped in all the adjectives,
so meant to harness the play.
cast as if a rod,
hovering,
over the crystal blue
the stream twisting,
carving the stones,
as a clever, the seam rejects the glue.
ever so wide
time does abide,
with all the written words
the ink is still crusty.
the pen,
still dances upon the page.
the riddle,
best left to a wit of a forgiving sage.