There are millions of rooms in the mind of a muse,

All dim-lit with thoughts too wild to choose.

Worlds unfolding with a blink of the eye,

Castles, deserts, lovers—gone by goodbye.

One foot in the grocery aisle,

The other in a kingdom lost to time.

While the barista speaks of soy or oat,

They’re sculpting moons from windswept rhyme.

Traffic lights blink—green, then red,

But in their mind, a pirate bled.

A comet kissed a planet’s cheek,

A child found the voice they couldn’t speak.

They nod and smile, pay their dues,

While rewriting history in shades of blues.

Flashes.

Fragments.

Slipping fast—

A god, a ghost, a spell they cast.

Folding laundry becomes a rite,

Each sock a clue, each shirt a fight.

The hum of the dryer, a dragon’s roar,

That guards some truth they can’t ignore.

A handshake hides a fabled pact.

A checkout beep, a time that cracked.

The phone rings—yet beneath the tone,

A symphony they wrote alone.

To walk among the everyday,

And harbor stars that ache to stay,

Is both a gift and quiet ache—

A dreamer dancing wide awake.

And when the world demands their gaze,

They nod, they smile, they softly praise—

But behind their eyes, those countless streams

Still rush in flashes, fed by dreams.