Fragilize Our Unself
© Surazeus
2018 02 25
The butterfly who is born from your eye
erases the name of the secret sky.
The mask of the self every human wears
we shape from wet clay of the dreaming Earth
so every creature who ever lived wakes
on flapping wings of our consuming brains.
The butterfly still on the window sill
shapes bomb clouds that rise over the crossed hill.
The boy in the bare room of the school house
stares inward at the glass clock with no hands,
ready to write strange truth on blank chalkboards
erased by the wind that plays on sea shores.
The butterfly that carves runes on our eyes
names the Unself that it would fragilize.
We spiral down double helix of self,
containing multitudes of long-dead souls
whose ghosts still walk streets of bomb-blasted towns
to syntax vast scale of angst-freighted songs.
The butterfly that designs hurricanes
creates human beings from chemical rains.
The teacher aims her pistol at the door,
heart pounding to calculate bullet curves,
while children duck and cover under desks
when the tyrant shoots missiles at the world.
The butterfly who weaves movies from dreams
teleports angels on transcendent beams.
The exile from Eden missing his hands
tries to teach stones to dream roses of faith
so Death smiles while strumming her mandolin
that builds glass cities from airy moon beams.
The butterfly who ballets on world stage
traps wise King Kong in blind religious cage.
While waiting for their Messiah to return
and transform messy Earth to paradise
they miss their prophet in the homeless man
who mutters proverbs by library doors.
The butterfly who rules the world as king
taxes everyone who wears angel wing.
Though our ancestral ghosts dream in our heads
we weave their memories in real face we wear
or twist them in clowns to make people laugh
who ignore harsh threat of nuclear war.
The butterfly who transforms from the newt
becomes Kwan Yin who plays enchanting flute.
We drive cars alone on crowded highways
and talk to each other through glowing phones,
each soul wandering mute in vast labyrinth
while Hades sees all from glass pyramid.
The butterfly who spells my name on air
invades the haven of my secret lair.
We sit together in the cafe space
and talk about the clown in the White House
while apple trees crack the cement veneer
when forests swallow our cities of glass.
The butterfly who enters the church hall
writes prophecies of fire on the clean wall.
She sits in the center of city zones,
dreaming the evolution of all time,
while we chase rainbows of glory and fame
to feast well before we dissolve to dust.
The butterfly who knows why we must cry
generates virtual world in every eye.
Just as I think I know the complete truth
the universe programs new matrix code
so every atom of our planet beats
through vibrant music pulsing in our blood.
The butterfly of your eye dreams your name
so we eat despair to play the love game.
We wake each day alive on spinning Earth
and sing our sorrows at the void of Death
to light our way through labyrinth of dreams
and gather singing on the hill of trees.
© Surazeus
2018 02 25
The butterfly who is born from your eye
erases the name of the secret sky.
The mask of the self every human wears
we shape from wet clay of the dreaming Earth
so every creature who ever lived wakes
on flapping wings of our consuming brains.
The butterfly still on the window sill
shapes bomb clouds that rise over the crossed hill.
The boy in the bare room of the school house
stares inward at the glass clock with no hands,
ready to write strange truth on blank chalkboards
erased by the wind that plays on sea shores.
The butterfly that carves runes on our eyes
names the Unself that it would fragilize.
We spiral down double helix of self,
containing multitudes of long-dead souls
whose ghosts still walk streets of bomb-blasted towns
to syntax vast scale of angst-freighted songs.
The butterfly that designs hurricanes
creates human beings from chemical rains.
The teacher aims her pistol at the door,
heart pounding to calculate bullet curves,
while children duck and cover under desks
when the tyrant shoots missiles at the world.
The butterfly who weaves movies from dreams
teleports angels on transcendent beams.
The exile from Eden missing his hands
tries to teach stones to dream roses of faith
so Death smiles while strumming her mandolin
that builds glass cities from airy moon beams.
The butterfly who ballets on world stage
traps wise King Kong in blind religious cage.
While waiting for their Messiah to return
and transform messy Earth to paradise
they miss their prophet in the homeless man
who mutters proverbs by library doors.
The butterfly who rules the world as king
taxes everyone who wears angel wing.
Though our ancestral ghosts dream in our heads
we weave their memories in real face we wear
or twist them in clowns to make people laugh
who ignore harsh threat of nuclear war.
The butterfly who transforms from the newt
becomes Kwan Yin who plays enchanting flute.
We drive cars alone on crowded highways
and talk to each other through glowing phones,
each soul wandering mute in vast labyrinth
while Hades sees all from glass pyramid.
The butterfly who spells my name on air
invades the haven of my secret lair.
We sit together in the cafe space
and talk about the clown in the White House
while apple trees crack the cement veneer
when forests swallow our cities of glass.
The butterfly who enters the church hall
writes prophecies of fire on the clean wall.
She sits in the center of city zones,
dreaming the evolution of all time,
while we chase rainbows of glory and fame
to feast well before we dissolve to dust.
The butterfly who knows why we must cry
generates virtual world in every eye.
Just as I think I know the complete truth
the universe programs new matrix code
so every atom of our planet beats
through vibrant music pulsing in our blood.
The butterfly of your eye dreams your name
so we eat despair to play the love game.
We wake each day alive on spinning Earth
and sing our sorrows at the void of Death
to light our way through labyrinth of dreams
and gather singing on the hill of trees.
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