I stare at discolored paint
waiting for a muse
to wander through the drywall
to risk the rusty nails
driven home by sweat-slicked carpenters
who care nothing for allusion

I wait for an idea
a Sylvanian glow of something
I haven't yet seen
I haven't yet discounted
ignorant of new wrinkles, freckles,
scars riddling the back of my hand

I dream of believing
in a dream I've stopped having
falling into down and steam
falling out of the high and mighty
knowing there are muses
amused by my plight
as I write of their abuses
escaping from the walls
into my room