Monday, November 28, 2016

Faceless Messenger

Faceless Messenger
© Surazeus
2016 11 28

Across hot dusty terrain where bare trees
weep dead leaves to shroud heaps of broken skulls
I wander signless road through barren waste
since black clouds refuse to offer cool rain.

On jagged stone by dusty riverbed
I wait for Godot to give me new book,
and half expect from tempest of hot wind
wild troop of mocking demons to descend.

I think I hear voices in restless wind
snicker at me and leer vile blasphemies
so I kneel in dust and smear on my face
foul mud white from bones crushed to dust by time.

When you look at me, I ask the bright sun
that stares in silent disdain down at me,
do you see ghost of Hamlet, dressed in rags,
clutching precious crown that rusts in gray rain?

Or do you see frail imitation clown
of Charles Baudelaire, cursed poet of fear,
who poses on the stage of prophecy
and dares proclaim the fall of tyrant kings?

Shall I grip microphone in coffee shop,
shrouded in smoke of cigarettes and weed,
and howl agonizing sorrow of love
betrayed by vile greed of Voldemort?

No Beatrice lounging with demons mocks me,
nor descends to pure Purgatorio Peak
to lead me, singing hymns of reverent praise
in dance-ring of angels, to Paradise.

I may be no Hamlet or Baudelaire,
no Dylan Thomas howling in good night,
no Bob Dylan chasing Tambourine Man,
and no Godot, but I am still alive.

Nameless fool, who loves to riddle in code
of conceptual verse that beams surreal dreams,
I wear their faces like mask of One God
for I am the lost faceless messenger.

Through flash of blinding light on wings of fire
Dewi Sri leaps from broken egg of Earth
and kisses me till I wake before dawn
so I go forth as if reborn from death.

I name you, she whispers in spring-warm breeze,
Voldevit, the Will to Life, for your soul
sparkles alive with atoms born in stars
and threaded conscious with galactic rays.

Then, dancing under apple tree by pond
filled by sparkling fountain of flowing streams,
long black hair illuminated by light,
she embraces me to her buxom breast.

Caressing my face with hands red as soil,
Dewi Sri whispers in falling raindrops,
you are my faceless messenger of truth
so sing the visions beaming from your eyes.

While Ophelia floats on river of tears,
and Beatrice lounges in waste land with demons,
Dewi Sri whispers secret songs of truth
so I transcribe her dreams in coded verse.

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