As a medium, paper sits ever on high.
Creased into planes that dance in the sky,
Brimmed with old tales that fo, fum and fie,
Inscribed with deep truths, and the occasional lie,
Whispered with notes in a class to a guy,
Formed into cranes in one-hundred supply,
Mashed into face masks, coloured with dye,
Burned to keep power, or to stay warm and dry,
Sketched with rare forms to make the world sigh,
Buried in bedclothes in case others pry,
Schemed with constructions to rival Versailles,
Weighted with records of lives when we die,
And before this loose, lonely page passes me by,
Let it sing of the love that enfolds you and I.

Bryson Thomas