A Magpie Tales post
The milky-white page stares at me blankly,
a cataract clouding my sight of the words.
I must strike the right key to find the
rhythm where lines once disturbed,
can find order and see alignment
in the snow blindness of the page.
But my guideless fingers strike tuneless,
discordant notes in their rage.
The same fingers, veins filled with ink
once could write a life in the space of a line,
see connections in dissonant images
that my mind’s eye could mine.
But now, the blind page unsees my work
and random letters fall and scatter
from ink-filled fingers, and, missing the page
fall unsighted to the ground and shatter.