Saturday, April 22, 2017

Returned From Waste Land

Returned From Waste Land
© Surazeus
2017 04 22

Where rainbows beam from broken skulls of kings
blind children sit alone in small white rooms
for they are angels who have lost their wings
since true fate is never woven on looms.

One angel stands and turns off box of dreams,
then pushes open door of wordless hope
and stares past bright indifferent sun that schemes
to blow his mind with vast eternal scope.

He shuts his eyes and all the world of shapes
vanishes, but inside his mind he sees
streams flowing among trees on broad landscapes
where sun glimmers over mountains and seas.

Kneeling at the fountain by broken gate,
the wingless angel stares at his own face
and wonders at the ache of heavy weight
that pulls him twirling down in boundless space.

Each solid tree I touch with seeking hand
pulses with the heartbeat of glowing light
as if some timeless master craftsman planned
design of pattern that makes it seem right.

But when he looks around in grove of trees,
searching for the presence he seems to feel,
he perceives nothing more than stream and breeze,
and only his own body that is real.

Each tree or rock repeats its patterned form
as if they manifest standard design,
variations on one eternal norm
contained within circle of binding line.

Since everything real seems so well designed,
I feel glamorous temptation to believe
the whole world was created by one mind
who animates creatures with vibrant weave.

Though every form of object he perceives
composed of matter will dissolve to nothing
in seasonal blooming like fragile leaves,
he hopes their perfect forms remain unchanging.

Though every tree may vanish from this world
perhaps strict pattern that composes tree
persists so flow of matter will be knurled
when seed transforms dirt, inspired by its key.

Material of our cosmos seethes in waves,
transforming into plants and animals,
then die and dissolve in devouring graves
as everything returns to radicals.

No master craftsman created all things
since matter swirls in vortex of mutation,
and I am no angel who lost his wings
since we evolve in process of gradation.

Watching the rainbow beaming after rain,
the wingless angel plucks fruit from tall trees,
then dreams evolution inside his brain
while carving apple tree on marble frieze.

Where rainbows beam from broken skulls of gods
children dance together around bright hearth
while angel who returned from waste land lauds
form regeneration from Mother Earth.

1 comment: