Dream Of Horse And Apples
Surazeus
2016 03 28
These rotten apples, wilting globs of fear,
on broken table in dark empty room,
are not symbols of despair in my heart,
though I stare at them as I feel that way.
I hide mind-numbing angst of mournful dread
and soul-crippling ennui of bitter hope
that sears my heart with aching throb of rage
inside frail box of symbols I invent.
No rotten horse covered with buzzing bees
in foul muddy ditch of putrid rainwater
contains concept of my horror at life
because each day of hunger ends in death.
I feel so conscious and alive this hour,
trapped in this creaking half-broken meat shell,
beyond infinite measure of lifespan
because flame of my life will be snuffed blank.
How fleeting glows my conscious brain of lust
in vast timeless flow of galactic swirl
that I scream, my consciousness must survive
beyond birth and death of this body meat.
Then I laugh as I stand alone in rain,
staring at bright enormous towers of glass,
because I know my consciousness is sparked
by tangled spirals of neurons in my brain.
Though all these atoms that congeal wet meat
of my body were forged in furnace heat
of humongous exploding stars, my soul
sizzles awake within my brain alone.
I wish it were true, what I dreamed in words
while standing by small creek in midnight gloom,
that I am one small part of divine Mind
waking up in this virtual dreaming brain.
I walk through mist in dark Ravenna Park
in Seattle on winding road of dreams,
and stumble into Stonehenge ring where stands
oak-strong temple of glorious Fairy Queen.
Tall woman in embroidered robe of stars
caresses my cheek with thin ice-cold hand
and explains how she made me from her womb,
weaving starlight from seed-soul of my father.
She tells me I am her reborn in flesh
and I in turn will generate new life,
so we hold hands in giant ring of stones
and sing before crowd of people who hum.
I wake from reverie of this strange dream
in small stone temple of large cemetery
two thousand years later in my new body
and wonder if that dream was real or not.
I float again in dreams of ancient selves
to find myself young woman in tree grove,
picking apples as blossoms white and soft
stick to my hair and hands in misty rain.
From swirling mist at beating of my heart,
I see strange creature with long slender face
and shining black eyes step through flower bush,
and note its mane is tangled in tree limbs.
Stepping forward slow, cooing gentle tune,
I tug its mane from tangled limbs with care,
then offer apple as I pat its neck,
and feel love when its nose nudges my cheek.
Sweet gentle horse with flowing mane and tail
appears each day to nibble by my side,
and follows me along bright gushing stream
then trots around me on vast field of flowers.
When gang of men with spears and glaring eyes
appear one dawn from rugged mountain slope
and run toward me with eager grasping hands,
I slide on back of horse who gallops swift.
She races far away across broad plain
where thunder clouds spit blue lightning and rain,
then stops by lake that reflects gleaming stars
and nudges my cheek with her velvet nose.
I wake from reverie again and smile,
wondering if dream reveals how my ancestors
tamed horses and discovered apple fruit
ten thousand years ago in hills of Scythia.
Though we as individuals come and go,
our memories forge patterns in our brains
that render new brains in children we bear,
so we live forever though we each die.
Surazeus
2016 03 28
These rotten apples, wilting globs of fear,
on broken table in dark empty room,
are not symbols of despair in my heart,
though I stare at them as I feel that way.
I hide mind-numbing angst of mournful dread
and soul-crippling ennui of bitter hope
that sears my heart with aching throb of rage
inside frail box of symbols I invent.
No rotten horse covered with buzzing bees
in foul muddy ditch of putrid rainwater
contains concept of my horror at life
because each day of hunger ends in death.
I feel so conscious and alive this hour,
trapped in this creaking half-broken meat shell,
beyond infinite measure of lifespan
because flame of my life will be snuffed blank.
How fleeting glows my conscious brain of lust
in vast timeless flow of galactic swirl
that I scream, my consciousness must survive
beyond birth and death of this body meat.
Then I laugh as I stand alone in rain,
staring at bright enormous towers of glass,
because I know my consciousness is sparked
by tangled spirals of neurons in my brain.
Though all these atoms that congeal wet meat
of my body were forged in furnace heat
of humongous exploding stars, my soul
sizzles awake within my brain alone.
I wish it were true, what I dreamed in words
while standing by small creek in midnight gloom,
that I am one small part of divine Mind
waking up in this virtual dreaming brain.
I walk through mist in dark Ravenna Park
in Seattle on winding road of dreams,
and stumble into Stonehenge ring where stands
oak-strong temple of glorious Fairy Queen.
Tall woman in embroidered robe of stars
caresses my cheek with thin ice-cold hand
and explains how she made me from her womb,
weaving starlight from seed-soul of my father.
She tells me I am her reborn in flesh
and I in turn will generate new life,
so we hold hands in giant ring of stones
and sing before crowd of people who hum.
I wake from reverie of this strange dream
in small stone temple of large cemetery
two thousand years later in my new body
and wonder if that dream was real or not.
I float again in dreams of ancient selves
to find myself young woman in tree grove,
picking apples as blossoms white and soft
stick to my hair and hands in misty rain.
From swirling mist at beating of my heart,
I see strange creature with long slender face
and shining black eyes step through flower bush,
and note its mane is tangled in tree limbs.
Stepping forward slow, cooing gentle tune,
I tug its mane from tangled limbs with care,
then offer apple as I pat its neck,
and feel love when its nose nudges my cheek.
Sweet gentle horse with flowing mane and tail
appears each day to nibble by my side,
and follows me along bright gushing stream
then trots around me on vast field of flowers.
When gang of men with spears and glaring eyes
appear one dawn from rugged mountain slope
and run toward me with eager grasping hands,
I slide on back of horse who gallops swift.
She races far away across broad plain
where thunder clouds spit blue lightning and rain,
then stops by lake that reflects gleaming stars
and nudges my cheek with her velvet nose.
I wake from reverie again and smile,
wondering if dream reveals how my ancestors
tamed horses and discovered apple fruit
ten thousand years ago in hills of Scythia.
Though we as individuals come and go,
our memories forge patterns in our brains
that render new brains in children we bear,
so we live forever though we each die.
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