On these snow-white pages,
Fingers bled with cold,
Frozen in the ages,
Struggle to take hold

Of worlds whited-out
By the stage’s blinding moats,
Paralyzed by doubt
And disappearing notes,

Scratching in the night
At forgotten hieroglyphics,
Hung up on the sleight
Of illusory specifics

Left behind like skins
To illuminate the keys
With discarded fashions
And long-dead galaxies.