Piece Poem by Keith Sly Simpson

What's a paper?
Just a mere piece, or a place to write poetry.
A lover's note and its passion.
A child's scribble with innocence.
Sometimes becomes a man's best friend,
Keeping all its clandestine, or
Just recordings of its routine.
White is the only colour he was born,
With no print on it!
It has no fragrance of a blossom,
Or the luster of the sun or moon,
But reflects an artists' obsession for his art,
Or sometimes becomes a fatal part when torn apart.
Enclosed with love for the loved ones.
History or chemistry
Or just contains millions of mysteries.
But as I see this,
It's a poet's treasure, all his creation made for beautiful seasons.
A secret to share, a letter filled with care.
An art to show, or sometimes just let it go.
A sweet love note written for the admirer.
Sometimes becomes a mystery or solves the secrecy.
This piece of paper has everyone's lives intact
Sometimes becomes a messenger,
Or just sometimes is left,
Abandoned in a corner.