I.
Unsuspectingly she met an angel,
real to the touch, and smelling of the sea.
His hands were scarred with passion by his Muse
so deeply that she, like an omen, fell
into them, spark, smoke, and flame; burning free.
The scent was her memory of greens, blues,
watery hues, skies darkened to a bruise
in her mind, times she wished for an angel.
Or was he an imp, pretending to free
her from secrets long buried in deep sea
deserts, only to show her where she fell,
tricked by desire, seduced by the Muse?
Ecstatic and wary, she asked her Muse,
“If he's an angel, let his hands be bruised.”
II.
To the sky she rose from flames where she fell
and challenged the imp (or was it angel?)
to compare passions. The winner, they'd see,
would burn the longest, and loser would freeze.
If she should win, from his hands she'd be freed,
or else held forever. The beast, amused,
agreed to the duel; but he could not see
she was looking at him for blacks and blues.
At once ignited, she and the angel
fed off each other as all around fell
sky from the rain, desire from time; fell
her secrets, his scars, their hues. She was free.
Silent, she stared at his hands. The angel
whispered, “I too know the three-headed Muse.”
III.
He began to fade into shades of blues
she thought she'd forgotten back by the sea.
Her own hands, filled with water, let her see
that he too had fallen where she first fell.
Where he now painted, sky was blackened bruise,
a bloody scent that from his hands ran free.
She could not ignore the signs of the Muse --
“He knows all of my secrets, an angel
he must be.” Upon this thought, the angel,
reappearing at her side, brought the sea
forth into her mind, invoking their Muse
to burn them both with memory. There fell
them both as one, to sky and ocean free,
to secret scars of blacks and greens and blues.