Saturday, February 11, 2017

Song Of Ourself

Song Of Ourself
© Surazeus
2015 01 01

This frail little rock of water and dirt
infested with wild intelligent creatures
managed to make it intact one more time
spinning around the ball of burning gas.

A poetic story well told about a human life
preserves the fleeting soul of a human,
and thus preserves the soul of a nation.

My head is cluttered with discarded dreams,
ten thousand lost poems I will never write,
your stories you live uncaptured by verse.

Another year the weird world spins around,
sprouting children and flowers from the ground,
so we sing by the river of lost dreams.

So small in vast infinity of space
our ball of dirt and water spins alone,
yet whole vast universe glows in each brain.

I hear the voices of a million people
and we weave our dreams in Song of Ourself
that becomes memories of our global brain.

I found a poem sprouting from squishy muck
of my brain, petals forming from despair,
then song spread wings and my soul flew away.

All my ancestors pulse inside my body,
so imagine the countless teeming millions
of mothers and fathers within my eyes,
and dream the endless journeys of their lives
written in the map of my smiling face.

My skin is red and my eyes are star-black
because my ancestors lived in rain forests
ten thousand years, searching for the lost wind.

My skin is white and my eyes are sky-blue
because my ancestors lived in snow mountains
ten thousand years, searching for the lost sun.

My skin is pink and my eyes are sea-green
because my ancestors lived in jagged hills
ten thousand years, searching for the lost flowers.

My skin is brown and my eyes are night-black
because my ancestors lived in sand deserts
ten thousand years, searching for the lost rain.

I wear masks of every gender and race
and find we share one universal mind
designed by one first mother we all share.

There is only one universe of matter.
Parallel universes are in our heads,
visions springing from our despair and hope,
speculations of how things might have been
if but one word or act was different.

We will all be dead in one hundred years.
My white skin paled in sunless vales of snow.
My blue eyes see more clear on cloudy days.

We are flashing eddies of energy,
swirling into conscious organic minds
who dream as we swim in calm sea of light. 

Our mind is a powerful dream machine
so we must sort through perceptions of hope
and analyze illusions to see truth
that reflects the real world we must perceive.

Desire for the beloved opposite other
sparks desire to perpetuate the self
when two bodies reincarnate the third self.

She weaves the whole world with her dreaming hands,
molding our planet from clay of lost souls
to shape the mask that laughs and cries in turn.

Helium spirals outward in gyrating coils
of expanding cones through triangle loops
that spin in hurricane of constrained sphere.
My brain is dreaming Eye of Helius.

I am weird figment of your imagination
assembled from atoms of humming words
that dance as raindrops blooming into flowers.

The birthday of the body and the mind
initiates the dance of life through hope
to sing and laugh until we all drop dead.

From thundering storm the eye of death stares down
into bottomless abyss of my soul
where choir of angels sing enchanting hymns.

To cut or not to cut, that is the measure
of expansive space composed of small atoms
that spiral infinitesimal galaxies
to weave thin tendrils of our dreaming brains.
We are sparks of one Infinitesimal Soul.

No comments:

Post a Comment