Consecrating Muse

The big toe
like some ego, breaks the syntax.
You cannot climb the poem.

Time knows,
whom to possess, when the thought
moves out of the mind.

Words were missing
from your teeth. You won't
bite the moon.

Black lips print
a kiss on white forefront, intersecting
past and future.

You learn to
become still in witch hunt
of a lost thread of sacred kill.

Indeed you discover
Yourself, reading the myth of modern
Sisyphus and floating rock.

Satish Verma