My muse

My muse has moved into a nursing home
The door that leads outside is locked
There is a magic code

Four digits that my muse no longer knows
Written near the doorjamb, this:
The password is the year in which we're living

The present will never be her later
Before she won't recall today
Later is already her very past tense

My muse has been imprisoned
In the room of my before
Gone is what goes without saying