Friday, May 13, 2016

Door Of Faces

Door Of Faces
© Surazeus
2016 05 13

You will never find the face I took off
and hid inside the book of lost folk tales
that no one ever reads in hall of lies
until I turn around three times and lock
oak door that leads beyond the last dead stream
because I escape from your waking dream.

I stuff too many sheets of paper tight
in suitcase of lost memories to fly
away from home you built on signless road
to catch fluttering words and count ocean waves
and yet we gather around bright camp fire
to give each other new names before death.

I step backward on road I paved and clap
in rhythm with heartbeat of last blind queen
who takes off her painted mask to reveal
she is mother of my mother in house
I painted red to hide it behind veil
of shining waterfall where we played chase.

Run laughing with me over hill of grass
to chase wind and play horses before dawn
obliterates real dream world we create
that disappears lost every time we close
door of faces which fall from weeping souls
who hide within cracked windows of starlight.

I can never find my way back home if
flapping sails on ship of silence skips waves
too fast in blustering wind that will erase
island where Fairies still live and drive cars
though I found it again on new glass globe
in library ten thousand miles away.

I paste old masks made from leaves and cobwebs
on door of faces whispering secret codes
I forgot to copy while I lay mute
and numb from searing pain at pointless death
of everyone I loved and reach thin hands
to clutch mutating clouds then sing their names.

I wish I could laugh at heart-twisting joke
of life and death that molds from spinning sparks
these sinuous bodies of atomic flesh
which generate this conscious dream of self
that animates my hot desire to kiss
your apple-red lips and become your soul.

I stand alone on island of the world
and everywhere I look I see the sea
of surging waves that slosh shore of smooth stones
which reflect gold sunlight of longing ache
to swim far bottomless abyss of love
where you are not misty ghost of my dreams.

Gusting wind blew my boat from star-gold shore
where you still stand in tattered dress of weeds
and smashed frail shell of my hope on sharp rocks
though now I wander singing on lush hill
of island paradise far from your breast
so we embrace each other with cold wind.

Though door of your house on lone silent shore
is locked against hunger of bleeding rain
I will emerge from shadow when glowing beams
of sunlight slip across the floor of faith
to prove I am no longer wavering wraith
of heart-aching love you fashioned from leaves.

We stare at each other for seven days
of flashing sun and moon surprised with joy
that weaves our fingers and hearts in firm web
of laughing songs to share words of our thoughts
because cold wind wraps our bodies in wings
of white ravens who leap from shining clouds.

White ravens bring new masks from flowing stars
carved on oak door to house of many rooms
where children look up at me with my eyes
so I lead them to ring of stones on hill
of secrets and teach them how to sing spells
that transform wind into faces of flesh.