Thursday, December 14, 2017

Tears Of Butterflies

Tears Of Butterflies
© Surazeus
2017 12 14

Who drinks fermented tears of butterflies
before the glass piano reveals truth
reflected in the mirror of your eyes
so when you fly above the city towers
your telescopic eyes can see the minds
of every secret poet who never writes?

Who leaps beyond the broken wall of fear
to weave weird rainbows from the sacred dreams
of children lost in maze of laughing doors
who buried names of ones they love with seeds
so vines of sorrow sprout from aching hearts
to preserve songs that no one ever writes?

Who grips sharp keys in clenched fists of despair
and crouches to fight grim shadows of lust
then leaves their bones on parking lot at noon
so the mute boy carves holes with serpent tongue
then plays heart-wrenching melodies of hope
in sweet memory of every murdered girl?

Who lowers buckets in bottomless wells
carved from frozen Earth by thin desperate hands
that clasp when chapped lips pray to empty sky
because no Superman nor Britomart
will fly from flaming clouds to save their souls
since no one but wind answers their sad prayers?

Who stumbles from city of loud machines,
deafened by the harsh howl of hungry ghosts,
and stands on river shore, soul bared to light,
to sing with flock of dreaming butterflies
whose language no one but him understands
because we are composed of pulsing dust?

Who slips the throbbing heart of selfless love
beating from the chest of the faceless king
before he writes your story in the book
that preserves souls in skeleton of words
but escapes on broken wings through the maze
of legends every culture wears as mask?

Who leaps into the doors of waterfalls
in hopes to enter alternate dimensions
where they rule as god-king of the whole world
because they rescue mute souls from the maze
of watching eyes who know your secret name
but keep it hidden in the jewel of truth?

Who stands in ethereal light of desire
to sing ancient epic tales with guitar,
hoping to escape the cage of the house
where their children wait for dinner to eat
while staring at apples that have three eyes
and peer into the secret depths of souls?

Who wanders in the waste land of lost souls
and listens to the thunder cracking jokes
while walking with the shadow of their mind
though the blind prophetess plays chess with death
and the hyacinth girl lies wounded in leaves
on which I wrote the prophecy you need?

Who stands forlorn on river shore at dawn
while sweet Ophelia offers them dead flowers
then brews mushroom wine with honey and grapes
so when I break from nutshell of my kingdom
I can race my bike across wind-swept deserts
and drink fermented tears of butterflies?


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