Vestige of a Legacy

Why is this blank paper staring at me?
It's getting annoying, so I stare back,
but the winner of this contest is already decided.
Why is it getting under my skin?
Possibly because by the 6th line of this verse
I should be 4 stanzas in with its clean white face
tattooed with erase marks, cross-strikes, carrots,
every corner crammed with hastily scribbled paisleys
and a fine dusting of flower doodles sprinkled in hazily

While I'm still in the past, let me
brandish my pencil, my SWord, my key
to awe-inspiring quatrains that would gallantly sing
over the cacophony of world that ceaselessly screams

While I'm still in the past, let me
dive into my notebook after jumping off reality,
sink to the bottom of the pool residing in my reverie
and exhale bubbles of poems from a long gone memory

While I'm still in the past, let me
write a letter on how flowers and paisleys and haphazard poetry
can reconstruct the architecture behind crumbling synapses
belonging to the nostalgia-devoted author of this eulogy
whose last farewell to herself is a vestige of her legacy

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