Mirror Mask Of Truth
© Surazeus
2017 11 02
While strolling flowered hills of France at dawn
I see white spaceship streak across the sky,
so, after gathering eggs of rainbow serpents,
who flutter gossamer wings in apple trees,
I enter bronze gates of Elysium,
enclosed by giant walls of marble blocks,
and sit in garden with my smiling bride,
because I wear mirror as mask of truth.
When crowd of zombies in grey business suits
emerge from First National Bank of Faith,
clutching cell phones that blink stock index values,
and clamor at the gates of paradise,
hungry to consume pulsing brains of painters,
I strum guitar of wise Phoebus Apollo
that zaps them dead with beams of harmony,
because I wear mirror as mask of truth.
America, you are the aging queen
who sits alone on golden throne of power
on the flat top of the high pyramid,
constructed from the skulls of laughing kings,
where thirty angels dance in slow ballet
of tightly-wound wings, while we stand in line
to offer you dreams of plastic illusions,
because I wear mirror as mask of truth.
When I first landed on the misty shores
of fertile Onatah, this ancient land
where the oldest woman in the world rules
from seven giant caves in the Grand Canyon,
I saw the Corn Maiden scatter gold seeds
on lush red soil that blossoms in the rain
which splashes on my face in purple dawn,
because I wear mirror as mask of truth.
Through wind and rain of singing hurricanes
I carried my frail mother on my back
while she described the secret of rebirth
across the rolling hills of Appalachi,
but I cannot return to Avalon
though I am the rightful heir of Apollo
so I fashion new lyre from her rib cage,
because I wear mirror as mask of truth.
I wander through the labyrinth of doors
past the broken statue of Liberty
and see ten thousand poets scratching verse
of magic spells on cement walls of highways
which beam idols of their authentic selves,
each one Narcissus singing his own beauty,
while Achilles and Hamlet play chess games,
because I wear mirror as mask of truth.
After I wandered dark streets of Seattle,
listening to ravens on telephone poles
explain algebra of shamanic dance,
I climbed steep slopes of Takoma at sunset
and carved thirty statues from marble core
to depict ancient Greek philosophers
whose faces are reflected in my face,
because I wear mirror as mask of truth.
America, my generous love, I beam
clear vision of your true face which compiles
ten million faces of the dead in one,
whose wordless love generated my body
with clear atoms spiraling swift in neurons
of my dreaming brain, connected to ring
of diamond light in blazing black-hole eye,
because I wear mirror as mask of truth.
My bride, wearing wreath of roses and vines,
reaches her twelve-fingered hand in my brain
to paint planets spinning around white suns
and laughs as she retreats to spacious cave
while I dance ten thousand years on high hill
to become the tree that grows from my heart
and blossom apples from songs I compose,
because I wear mirror as mask of truth.
When I place the Viking helmet of horns
to crown my cracked skull with laurels of truth
I search the crowd of faces for the face
of Minerva who taught me how to sing,
so I smash the mirror reflecting my face
and build thirty statues of great heroes,
who lead us through the labyrinth of lies,
then mask their faces with mirror of truth.
© Surazeus
2017 11 02
While strolling flowered hills of France at dawn
I see white spaceship streak across the sky,
so, after gathering eggs of rainbow serpents,
who flutter gossamer wings in apple trees,
I enter bronze gates of Elysium,
enclosed by giant walls of marble blocks,
and sit in garden with my smiling bride,
because I wear mirror as mask of truth.
When crowd of zombies in grey business suits
emerge from First National Bank of Faith,
clutching cell phones that blink stock index values,
and clamor at the gates of paradise,
hungry to consume pulsing brains of painters,
I strum guitar of wise Phoebus Apollo
that zaps them dead with beams of harmony,
because I wear mirror as mask of truth.
America, you are the aging queen
who sits alone on golden throne of power
on the flat top of the high pyramid,
constructed from the skulls of laughing kings,
where thirty angels dance in slow ballet
of tightly-wound wings, while we stand in line
to offer you dreams of plastic illusions,
because I wear mirror as mask of truth.
When I first landed on the misty shores
of fertile Onatah, this ancient land
where the oldest woman in the world rules
from seven giant caves in the Grand Canyon,
I saw the Corn Maiden scatter gold seeds
on lush red soil that blossoms in the rain
which splashes on my face in purple dawn,
because I wear mirror as mask of truth.
Through wind and rain of singing hurricanes
I carried my frail mother on my back
while she described the secret of rebirth
across the rolling hills of Appalachi,
but I cannot return to Avalon
though I am the rightful heir of Apollo
so I fashion new lyre from her rib cage,
because I wear mirror as mask of truth.
I wander through the labyrinth of doors
past the broken statue of Liberty
and see ten thousand poets scratching verse
of magic spells on cement walls of highways
which beam idols of their authentic selves,
each one Narcissus singing his own beauty,
while Achilles and Hamlet play chess games,
because I wear mirror as mask of truth.
After I wandered dark streets of Seattle,
listening to ravens on telephone poles
explain algebra of shamanic dance,
I climbed steep slopes of Takoma at sunset
and carved thirty statues from marble core
to depict ancient Greek philosophers
whose faces are reflected in my face,
because I wear mirror as mask of truth.
America, my generous love, I beam
clear vision of your true face which compiles
ten million faces of the dead in one,
whose wordless love generated my body
with clear atoms spiraling swift in neurons
of my dreaming brain, connected to ring
of diamond light in blazing black-hole eye,
because I wear mirror as mask of truth.
My bride, wearing wreath of roses and vines,
reaches her twelve-fingered hand in my brain
to paint planets spinning around white suns
and laughs as she retreats to spacious cave
while I dance ten thousand years on high hill
to become the tree that grows from my heart
and blossom apples from songs I compose,
because I wear mirror as mask of truth.
When I place the Viking helmet of horns
to crown my cracked skull with laurels of truth
I search the crowd of faces for the face
of Minerva who taught me how to sing,
so I smash the mirror reflecting my face
and build thirty statues of great heroes,
who lead us through the labyrinth of lies,
then mask their faces with mirror of truth.
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