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

Little trees

Blocking path

Bowing deeply

Ice encrusted

Ducking under

Made my way

Thru the sylvanian domain  

Sun rays playing off the ice

What a wonderful sight  

Looking up, more beauty seen

Pink tufts of candy floss

Scattered across the sky.