Marius Surleac

deep down underneath - a seahorse is the servant for his tiny ones

the poignant grandpa – lost memories and pattern in the brain’s aged swamp

my timid heart shakes – I gulp down the final fall from the poisoned cup

What if? What if the writers wouldn’t have had hands? Wouldn’t be any poetry? The poets would become orators, our brains would become libraries – continuously build up in the land of thoughts What

bird cutting the sky – striving fall of the eagle for hunting the prey; beneath, grass pushed down by the rabbit … running for escape

flight of rusty leaves – a farmer aspirating the garden of fall; I mime a V of birds beyond the hedge of wrapped summer

War between souls White dove flies beneath the sky of silence before storm, people with rods raised their sight questioning their lost soul; peace in their hearts, peace in their bones, peace will

Only the noise of my steps, falling in the mist of the night, shy under the petals of the Universe Moon is the female hunting the lions in a desert of peace Fingers stealing the notes from a

Storm Outside the window, plummets were dripping like soldiers wanting to get through. Thunders were vibrating the sound that passed through the glass; flashes from sky draw in front of my

No Word in Silence, just Light? Howl of despair in the oasis of thoughts had crushed my ideas tho’ wound do still hurts My will, thy, inspire the soul that was found and asking for mercies from sky

Wind blushes cheeks, lost smile keeps the old whisks frozen Her face amazed by the dazed eye. Confused beliefs found in the night; cross my sight … the last fight invoked by the warmed

His face trapped in the ocean’s mirror trembles rapidly; heart is stoned, in the bottom filled with sand! Behind, the uttered trees extend their branches, like the terror in the souls he

Exhibition Wooden legs that soar under the dome with the dignified name: Pico della Mirandola; all around the critics pronounced under the wheels, hanged on the magnificent epaulette of

the sun was hot; lens has caught the sharp spot inside

lower your eyes; wish from skies comes and flies beneath

flowers fragrance flees - spring cries its days in the cup filled with time’s layers; I, bashful, tasting a nap under your blossom wide wings

sun hiding through clouds - dismantled scream of the wind invoking the rain; my eyes sensing the morphine under the kiss of the night

words stained in fire – tomes spitting their sizzling yell through massive tackles…

green sward breeze brushing – far away a stallion tasting the freedom

look becoming wiped – wind blows stardust from the sky straight to the eyelash

The graveyard The night is coming now all crypts are full of the dead; the junkies raised their eyes ahead and shadows bawl “Bow-Bow!” The lovers seem to go from their benches in the

War scene A hand from a dead body uphold by a megalithic pile of weapons, tries with a last effort to survive – for the aggrieved mothers! Laid on the murky soil, the soldiers – both dead