"Invisible Ink"

Enshrouded in darkness,
A conic section illuminated by the light from your eyes,
I sit collecting dust,
Waiting for someone to pass their fingers over me,
To draw patterns in the residue,
To bring to life an inanimate object.

I am not a mystery,
I am an open book lying before you,
Written in invisible ink,
Begging to be read, to be studied, just to be noticed,
Spill just a drop of your blood on the pages,
And the words will come to life,
Full of color, full of life,
Full of the spirit that you can give.

My pages might be yellowed,
I might be rough and tattered 'round the edges,
But my message remains untouched,
The secrets unblemished by the time they've been ignored,
They stand unwavering,
They stand waiting,
They long for someone to hear their voice.

Each word reveals another sliver,
Until you expose me naked,
Then you'll bear witness to a transformation,
As I become clay in your hands,
And you can turn me into your soldier, your mercenary,
Give me my orders,
And I will bring your fantasies to life,
For I have none of my own,
For I am an open book,
And I have barely begun to be written.

Christopher M Colavito