Blank Pages

Flipping to July, a generic lake scene,

light blue, almost too serene.

All the days just sit, stark and clean,

no single thing to intervene.

No penciled 'dentist,' no circled 'meet,'

no scribbled 'call' to make it feel complete.

Just empty squares, a grid, a silent feat,

a testament to hours, passing fleet.

It hangs there, mocking, on the kitchen wall,

a landscape bought for some corporate thrall.

And I just stare, at nothing, after all,

waiting for a moment to befall.