• Vol. 04
  • Chapter 01
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I’m waiting for inspiration

while he looks at something I can’t see

or perhaps, he’s watching me.

Behind him, gloves line the wall

in a chaotic color scheme.

I’m still waiting for my muse.

He is watched, in his jacket

smeared with paint, by his

creation, as am I.

But his creation, cunning

contemplates stepping from that canvas.

He will blend with his creator, possess him

paint him into his prison and become a God.

While I sit and wait for an idea.

This new being will notice

upon a veined, black marble table

a single, wrinkled glove of grey.



Like him, it is unique, there is no

other like it in a room that houses pairs.

He stares his icy glare, he hates it

yet is compelled to touch it.

And I wait. Where is my inspiration?