The architect whispers:
give me the goldener Schnitt
but make it heavy enough to hurt my shoes.

So the spiral grows a backbone,
thick black outline, elbows of cement.

Color tiles flicker like irrational numbers,
magenta over √5, turquoise over “whatever”.

This is Fibonacci on steroids,
a snail shell made of balcony slabs.

The yellow arc is the sun’s protractor,
measuring how much beauty a wall can bear
before it starts to laugh.

Inside the curve, rooms stack themselves:
1, 1, 2, 3, 5,
kitchens, corridors, quiet breakdowns.

Brutalism nods:
I will follow your sacred ratio,
but I’ll do it in marker lines
and slightly drunk.

At the center, a small dark doorway:
entry to the point
where mathematics turns into mood
and concrete finally admits
it has always been a spiral of doubt.