2016 08 22
Though eyeless clown with broken hand is crowned
king of fools, after he rose from the sea
reborn and baptized clean, since he was drowned
by waves of horror at truth he could see
reflected back by the mirror of death,
he humbles himself in service to light
and returns to us all the holy breath
we need to resume our exploring flight.
Far beyond the wall of hope, we must build,
reside wise witches who know how to heal
hearts wounded by meaningless despair, killed
by naive hope of the last broken wheel
that clatters alone on the highway, lost
without the map that I drew to reveal
secret way past ruins of towers that cost
our life blood to restore the shattered keel.
All living spirits, born from egg or womb,
to swim in seas, crawl on plains, fly in clouds,
or float in beams of light piercing my tomb,
must die alone while celebrating crowds
dance on beating wings that sprout from my brain
who walk back and forth on frail bridge of lies,
then wander at dawn, mute in thoughtless rain,
and dream about cinnamon apple pies.
Standing on first pyramid built by hands
of dreamers, long before the first sunrise
cast rays of lust that burned lush hills to sands
of hopeless horror, I open three eyes
and map progress of my quest to conserve
paradise of fruit orchards where wild games
of children weave love in spiraling curve
that carves on mountains all forgotten names.