What shall be the words of this page, for nothing at this time comes to light. I see the world as a stage, yet of nothing do I care to write. This indeed is a rare time for me for my pen has always come through, word after word and line upon line, each poem,different and new. Birds in flight and children at play yet none of this holds my attention. All to me is empty notice and hardly even worth the mention. paradox as a poem comes forth when indeed I had nothing to write. In this, a small sense of accomplishing that has rescued me from this day's plight.