2016 04 06
I am not what you think I am at all
because I painted my face on your wall
before Death claimed my lost soul as First Prize,
extracting memories of pain from my eyes.
I built my house upon Rock of Salvation
to stage new passion play of desolation
since Dionysus now wears face of Christ
and rules how American Pie is sliced.
Material of our universe is flushed
through regenerating seeds of black holes
in process of rebirth that we can trust
since everyone chooses their social roles.
I sit in sunlight on flower-swirling knoll,
eating apples I pluck from Tree of Life,
and watch with simple joy my favorite foal
play by cool stream while I sharpen my knife.
My brain produces ancient memories
that replay lives my ancestors designed
which provide principles as urgent keys
to open doors in my unconscious mind.
Your magic spells fail to activate dreams
that could illuminate secrets of truth,
so I chant spells to reflect rhymes of streams
that sparkle spirits in Fountain of Youth.
I break free from egg of labyrinth eyes
and dance on ancient shore of flowing stream
where we first stretched our arms to flashing skies
and began this tale of our human dream.
I am what you think I am if you look
beyond my face and read my singing book
whose words trace, on map of our human dream,
coded tales that support our social scheme.