by Marius Surleac
Throwing the smooth clothes, burning the heart that remained without silence in solid echoes,
she came from nowhere, from black and white, now and never
Her bosoms I touched became one
with the hand … my fingers became
her lungs that turned into knowledge,
the hands gave birth to blue feathers
buried six feet under in ink,
her footsteps sank in mystery
my crucified words on the top
of the virgin page of my thought
she tastes like apples,
she sings like mermaids;
through her eyes have seen
Medusa; her lie,
Delilah hides and
chariots
of fire
will carry
stardust –
so called,
my
MUSE!
Muse – inverted Fibonaccian poem