Mirror Of Death
© Surazeus
2018 02 20
The wall of moonlight that blocks wind of dreams
was built by the hand of the faceless man
who thinks he owns the bodies of the children,
so he buries them in dirt of lost hopes.
Nothing ever grows from the broken hearts
that she buries in bitterness of fear
unless she polishes them with clean cloth
and places them on the shelf in the hall.
She arranges our long-forgotten memories
with wood statues of folk art from the island
where her grandmother wove stars into flowers,
and the statues smile at the eyeless robot.
The children who climb from the darkest heart
of the man who put their brains in glass boxes
break free from the blinding fate of the wind
and weave moonlight into the car they drive.
Back and forth through the maze of history
we run so far beyond the walls of Heaven
that we recalculate the code of fate
to reprogram the story liars tell.
I feel my lost soul inside the wood statue
of Siwa who dances on the sea shore
slow as the flash of fourteen billion years
to dream the fluctuation of all matter.
The well of moonlight that channels my dreams
through tunnels that spiral between black wholes
reflects the true mask I wear in this life
so I walk the forest of singing pines.
I find the children buried in my heart
so their ghosts float beside me when I go
down the road of my life next fifty years,
and people sense them haunting my weird words.
The ghosts of my ancestors float in clouds
that swirl slow around the ancestral ghosts
of every person I meet in the world
which reveals our souls in mirror of death.
I want no harsh secrets to disappear,
hidden by the quiet ones in clean kitchens
inside the puzzles that no one can solve
then stored in dictionaries of folk tales.
What strange history of horrible abuse
waits concealed in tales of lost generations
who mock the greedy thieves disguised as priests
when they fail to escape harsh punishments?
When I visit the museum of art
I perceive the ghosts of dead people smeared
with rainbow-colored blood from unicorns
to preserve spirit of their characters.
Since they are now dead, their bodies of flesh
no longer exist as active components
in the swirling time-stream of pulsing atoms,
so they are apparitions of our minds.
What weird magic sparkles in words we write
that these little letters, which signify
active objects and qualities they contain,
conjure apparitions of souls now dead.
When I read these words printed in this book
my mind dreams idols of once-living people
who play again the actions they performed
in fate-bound role that they can change no more.
While they were alive they could exercise
free will of their hope, based on what they knew,
to act with aggressive force of desire
that causes effect of dreams to come true.
They played their special role in game of life,
breeding children or building with their hands,
so their actions become our history
as they live reborn in genetic offspring.
I stand unmoving on our spinning world
to watch effects of our actions unfold,
then chronicle the history of desire
that reflects our souls in mirror of death.
© Surazeus
2018 02 20
The wall of moonlight that blocks wind of dreams
was built by the hand of the faceless man
who thinks he owns the bodies of the children,
so he buries them in dirt of lost hopes.
Nothing ever grows from the broken hearts
that she buries in bitterness of fear
unless she polishes them with clean cloth
and places them on the shelf in the hall.
She arranges our long-forgotten memories
with wood statues of folk art from the island
where her grandmother wove stars into flowers,
and the statues smile at the eyeless robot.
The children who climb from the darkest heart
of the man who put their brains in glass boxes
break free from the blinding fate of the wind
and weave moonlight into the car they drive.
Back and forth through the maze of history
we run so far beyond the walls of Heaven
that we recalculate the code of fate
to reprogram the story liars tell.
I feel my lost soul inside the wood statue
of Siwa who dances on the sea shore
slow as the flash of fourteen billion years
to dream the fluctuation of all matter.
The well of moonlight that channels my dreams
through tunnels that spiral between black wholes
reflects the true mask I wear in this life
so I walk the forest of singing pines.
I find the children buried in my heart
so their ghosts float beside me when I go
down the road of my life next fifty years,
and people sense them haunting my weird words.
The ghosts of my ancestors float in clouds
that swirl slow around the ancestral ghosts
of every person I meet in the world
which reveals our souls in mirror of death.
I want no harsh secrets to disappear,
hidden by the quiet ones in clean kitchens
inside the puzzles that no one can solve
then stored in dictionaries of folk tales.
What strange history of horrible abuse
waits concealed in tales of lost generations
who mock the greedy thieves disguised as priests
when they fail to escape harsh punishments?
When I visit the museum of art
I perceive the ghosts of dead people smeared
with rainbow-colored blood from unicorns
to preserve spirit of their characters.
Since they are now dead, their bodies of flesh
no longer exist as active components
in the swirling time-stream of pulsing atoms,
so they are apparitions of our minds.
What weird magic sparkles in words we write
that these little letters, which signify
active objects and qualities they contain,
conjure apparitions of souls now dead.
When I read these words printed in this book
my mind dreams idols of once-living people
who play again the actions they performed
in fate-bound role that they can change no more.
While they were alive they could exercise
free will of their hope, based on what they knew,
to act with aggressive force of desire
that causes effect of dreams to come true.
They played their special role in game of life,
breeding children or building with their hands,
so their actions become our history
as they live reborn in genetic offspring.
I stand unmoving on our spinning world
to watch effects of our actions unfold,
then chronicle the history of desire
that reflects our souls in mirror of death.
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