Saturday, December 17, 2016

Skull Of My Father

Skull Of My Father
© Surazeus
2016 12 17

The small white cricket on the bare white wall
will never be the emperor of all
or play the violin while the world burns
but will teach me wisdom while the globe turns.

The tall granite mountain that shimmers white
in the clear blue mountain lake of cracked light
explains to me the power of gods and kings
who all lie dead while the blind angel sings.

I hold the skull of my father and muse
on the meaning of life I dream from clues
written in runes on the mirror of time
which reveals divine truth in coded rhyme.

I wander the labyrinth of great towns
to recruit noble heroes from drunk clowns
and form new army of righteous police
to assassinate god and maintain peace.

The young boy who cannot see my true face
orders scattered blocks in each destined place
to imitate chemical play of life
while carving formulas with beaming knife.

At midnight when the sky glows red as blood
I see the girl make flowers bloom from mud
and when I least expect to feel her eyes
she gives me apple that fell from blank skies.

So forth I go from ruined church of lies
and stop before each soul who lost their eyes
to sing new name from star light and sea waves
while leading them back home to mother caves.

We gather on the pyramid of flames
where Ishtar gives countless lost souls new names
then sends us out to every distant vale
commissioned to teach secret of the grail.

I point to stars and tell them, high above
our spinning sphere dwells mother of true love
who molds our bodies from warm soil and light,
then lead them dancing in her rebirth rite.

Whoever rises from the common tribe,
as chronicled by the rebellious scribe,
and dares to rule nations of men this year
will fail to control fate on our vast sphere.

We see so many proud kings rise and fall
and strut without restraint in palace hall
but we the people will continue on
helping each other survive night till dawn.

I follow owl and wolf through misty grove,
tracking the last angel of truth who slove
from maze of superstition and built wall
where the dead girl is mistaken for a doll.

I stand on street corners at night to sing,
angel of liberty with broken wing
will fall forever from the golden tower
when Odin kills Saturn and seizes power.

Athena leads me through the hall of kings
and shows me every man who wore gold rings
and reigned as ruler was transformed to stone,
but now I walk the ocean beach alone.

When you all find the prophet of truth dead
read his deep analysis carved in lead
that calculates wild waves of war and peace
which smash empires till games of greed cease.

Who knows the reason why we are alive,
so we gather all tales on one archive
that record the names of men who played god
in power games that only the dead applaud.


  1. Who knows the reason why we are alive, - This is so true.

  2. awesome poem for the turn of the year.