White vacuum stares back

A snow-blind battlefield where words go to die.

Memory whispers: “You used to create here.”

But inspiration lies frozen, buried six feet under pristine emptiness.

Midnight ticks by. Sleep should rescue,

Promise tomorrow's resurrection.

But darkness brings no peace,

Only the demon of empty pages.

It circles my bed on spider-leg shadows,

Each footfall an echo of unwritten words.

In dreams, it wears my face—

A mirror of creative death.

The page gleams like bleached bone,

Dissecting my worth with surgical precision

Until I stand flayed,

My artistic pretensions exposed.

Morning light brings no salvation.

Colors bleed to grayscale,

Sounds mute to whispers,

Tastes turn to ash.

I walk streets of cardboard cutouts,

Past eyes that see through my façade.

They know—they must know—

This emperor has no art.

Words once flowed like spring rivers,

Now they're trapped in winter's grip.

My voice, a frozen stream,

Cracking under pressure.

In this wasteland of white space,

Everything bears the same blank face.

No shadow, no light,

No truth, no lies.

Am I still a creator

When creation abandons me?

Or just another ghost,

Haunting the margins of empty pages?