Dear Muse

It's dark in here, without you--
I'm stuck banging around the walls
of my creative corridors,
bashing in windows with the hope
of letting in a little light,
only cutting my hand--which bleeds ink
all over the floor of this asylum.
I crash into furniture uncerimoniously
set in the center of a room--there is no
place to sit or sleep it off, and there's certainly
no glass of warm milk on this nightstand.

I try to feel for a way out, tottering against corners
that don't exist, imagining handles that never come,
reaching above my head for trap-doors that never
existed, or a piece of rope leading to an attic I know isn't there.

The floor-boards mock me
with their cackles and sniggering creaks,
and the clock tsk-tsks away with it's pendulous head
in taunting sympathy. I think "help me" but nothing
breaks his beat. Soon I am full of sounds who
would make a song, but there are too many notes
I can't make out.

I support myself against a wall and wait for morning,
remembering how you control the sun,
and thought you'd take a walk to get some fresh air--
without telling me when to expect you back.

I'm left whimpering into the darkness,
on legs that are too tired,
trying to keep open eyes that are too sleepy,
wishing wishing there were a lightswitch.