Color Of Wind And Rain
© Surazeus
2017 12 30
The book of secret stories we composed
to capture the color of wind and rain
falls on the freeway, tattered and exposed,
and calculates the neutral spiel of pain.
By referendum will the wandering king,
who sings old stories on the busy street,
be crowned the last pope of the broken wing
before sweet Ceres bakes fresh bread from wheat.
While sitting in Paris cafe last night
I listened to the colors Dali wove
in gears of timeless clocks that melt the light
flashing masks I stole from his treasure trove.
Although I ride the alligator swift
across the waste land where the thunder speaks
I stop to give Kwan Yin my heart as gift
while we meditate on ten thousand peaks.
Before the savior, sailing wooden ship
through mist of illusions, brings back my eye,
he pried from my statue that fools worship,
I will measure the spirit in the sky.
Who can measure the whole infinite void
where every particle of matter glows
with hungry energy to spin ovoid
in flashing neurons of my brain that flows?
I fold invisible wings in my heart
and sit on domestic couch in quaint home
by the sea that swirls so far off the chart
I found it only when I ceased to roam.
We sit alone on shining beach of time
and watch the characters of countless films,
based on dead heroes, monologue in rhyme
about exploring scope of surreal realms.
I found young Eliot on his hands and knees
picking fragments of civilized world view
from shattered rose window in temple trees
so I rebuild cathedral with singing crew.
Whoever reigns on golden throne of power
can never lead the seat of spoken word
for he would learn the secret in the flower
that one can only rule the mindless herd.
The shape of water forms my body shell
that nourishes my animating soul
so when we gather in the ringing dell
the spinning universe will weave me whole.
When I emerge from the cave of my birth
and sing on the shore of the lake of dreams
I will embody the spirit of Earth
to organize memory in epic themes.
© Surazeus
2017 12 30
The book of secret stories we composed
to capture the color of wind and rain
falls on the freeway, tattered and exposed,
and calculates the neutral spiel of pain.
By referendum will the wandering king,
who sings old stories on the busy street,
be crowned the last pope of the broken wing
before sweet Ceres bakes fresh bread from wheat.
While sitting in Paris cafe last night
I listened to the colors Dali wove
in gears of timeless clocks that melt the light
flashing masks I stole from his treasure trove.
Although I ride the alligator swift
across the waste land where the thunder speaks
I stop to give Kwan Yin my heart as gift
while we meditate on ten thousand peaks.
Before the savior, sailing wooden ship
through mist of illusions, brings back my eye,
he pried from my statue that fools worship,
I will measure the spirit in the sky.
Who can measure the whole infinite void
where every particle of matter glows
with hungry energy to spin ovoid
in flashing neurons of my brain that flows?
I fold invisible wings in my heart
and sit on domestic couch in quaint home
by the sea that swirls so far off the chart
I found it only when I ceased to roam.
We sit alone on shining beach of time
and watch the characters of countless films,
based on dead heroes, monologue in rhyme
about exploring scope of surreal realms.
I found young Eliot on his hands and knees
picking fragments of civilized world view
from shattered rose window in temple trees
so I rebuild cathedral with singing crew.
Whoever reigns on golden throne of power
can never lead the seat of spoken word
for he would learn the secret in the flower
that one can only rule the mindless herd.
The shape of water forms my body shell
that nourishes my animating soul
so when we gather in the ringing dell
the spinning universe will weave me whole.
When I emerge from the cave of my birth
and sing on the shore of the lake of dreams
I will embody the spirit of Earth
to organize memory in epic themes.
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