Three Faces.
If the place in which I write is accepted as real
it seems the verse and myself are two
sides of three faces.
In depth of silence I catch first breath of Muse
who since noting capitulation starts
her bid to relate.
Each phrase is food humbly partaken and felt
by the psyche that becomes translated
as mood-parsing state.
Lipless the language that fills a blank canvas,
mystic semantics her breath bequeaths
before they escape.
My poem runs freely when anticipation stays
strictly in place but where goes the me
when Muse has her way ?