Hands Instead Of Wings

Hands Instead Of Wings
© Surazeus
2017 10 26

When I wake up every morning to find
the entire universe completely changed,
I have to hunt lush meadows by the river
for a new name to call myself when light
beams through clouds to thread new wings on my heart.

I remove the mask my mother designed
and hang it on the tree where birds explain
principles of algebra weaving curves
so I can calibrate my soaring leap
beyond the edge of the world on new wings.

While gathering eggs and walnuts in baskets,
I wove from the tough sinews of my mind,
I find pyramid where people tend wheat
who explain that god can see all we do,
so I hide my wings in high mountain cave.

I climb the high pyramid, step by step,
and find the old man everyone calls god
who tells me he will feed me well for life
if I work each day in fields tending wheat,
then he gives me coins for my broken wings.

I wonder why people form social groups
and choose the wisest or the strongest man
to play god as ruler of all they do
so religious states live beyond our deaths
by hanging our lost wings on temple walls.

Our wandering tribes of hunting gatherers
expand into empires that contend to rule
resources of rivers in fertile plains
where we worship our first father as god
since he first taught us how to invent wings.

I fly my small white airplane in vast sky
and glide in clouds from sea to shining sea
like Icarus to touch the glowing sun
that weaves our world from flashing molecules
since we humans have hands instead of wings.

On lone street corners of small nameless towns
I play guitar and chant the ancient spell
that Hermes programmed in my sparkling brain
so I can cause flowers to laugh in rain
while draped in wet cloak of my useless wings.