Quickly cast aside
A crumpled
Ball of paper flies

Like a discarded idea
To the waste bin

As an absorbed artist
Continues to work

Colorful
Piles of paper
At the corner of his eye

But he pays them
No mind.

For they
Are no longer worthy
Of his time.

But little
Does he know
Some things are not
All but meet the eye

For some,
Flames don’t simply die

Despite criticism
And the public bite

From within the apparent ashes
They hold the potential
For a new light

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This poem was inspired by a writing prompt from the “Storyteller’s Vault” Publication.

Paper
absorbed | crumple