A white room,
A sanctuary for the strong,
And weak minded alike,
Gives way to a sinister,
Deafening peace,
A neutrality like none other.

In the center of the cold,
Invariably white marble floor,
A stack of thin papers are amassed,
Piled neatly, without falter,
All innumerable sheets,
Impeccably homogenous and balanced.

And in an instant,
I find my hands sifting through these colorless sheets,
What I saw to be a simple,
Yet unmistakable masterpiece,
Feeling choleric, and surprisingly,
But palpably enraged.

Finding a rhythm, I lift each sheet,
And immediately discard it to my left,
Only after shifting it from one hand to another,
And examining it for any signs of intrest;
A color, a tint, or a shade.

Finding nothing, my eyes,
Weary, and burning with tears,
begin to close,
Yielding a near peace,
Much like what the chamber of sheer nothingless,
Allowed to me experience so breifly.

And upon realizing,
That is not my turn to wake up,
Now, or later, or even in a thousand years,
I smile internally,
Finally reaching my gateway,
The one I've yearned for,
For what seems like a lifetime,
Between transparency,
And that land of hue, iridescence,
And undying luminosity.