Puzzle Of Our New World View

Puzzle Of Our New World View
© Surazeus
2018 02 03

Within the crack in the window of time
I see the wheel of fire that breaks the world
and leaves us stranded in strawberry fields
where nowhere man reads dreams from his blank book.

I was apprentice fool for twenty years
under Nostradamus, gazing at water
in the tower of Rapunzel who built
skeleton of my soul from crystal shards.

I learned how to augur the flights of birds
who map our ways in city maze of mirrors
while slipping between dimensions of truth
to fly across the multiverse of souls.

The secrets hidden in her code of dreams
are too obscure for fools to comprehend
so they all die in accidents of fate,
leaving blind jesters to inherit the Earth.

When the messiah returned to our world
no one noticed him singing comic tales
on the stage of our vaudeville theater,
then dying in the gutter one winter night.

The wings of dead angels we must preserve
in hushed museum where blind queen reveals
formula tweaking programs of our brains
which calculate how we move through blank space.

I pause in the vast library of dreams
and wait for you to catch up to these truths
that guide us leaping chasm of despair
through labyrinth of doors that lead nowhere home.

I press my face in plasmic wall of mist
and leave ideal mask of my character
that generations of priests try to play
as vicar of god who never existed.

I stand on mute streets in your nameless town
and sing the tales of great heroes long dead
who burst laughing from the egg of my head
so I run for the office of World Clown.

I ride the white hart on the Brooklyn Bridge
that rings like lyre of Apollo in wind
while chanting prophecies that crack foundation
on which we built the pyramid of eyes.

I enclose the spells of ten million poets
in packaged bromides that sell like hot cakes,
slathered in sweet syrupy sentiments,
to merge all visions in one weird pop song.

Saint Barbie floats over the ruined church,
emerging on angel wings from cracked skull
of the world messiah to give ripe apples
to every girl who survives broken homes.

Now stop calling me the Hyacinth Girl,
she cries and runs through labyrinth of shadows
to leave her footprints smeared on every painting
still hanging in museums of haughty pride.

The shimmering shadow of the nameless muse
follows me through the waste land of dead words
so though I sing on streets of Somewhere City
no one hears my words behind traffic noise.

As Snow Flower writes last message to mankind
on the secret fan of her bitter heart
I sail my river boat down winding streams
past the most ancient cities of the world.

I know I will find beyond the next turn
down never-ending road of history
the secret vision I keep searching for
that explains shape of water to the core.

While striding down Parnassus to Manhattan
I pass ten thousand poets who sit alone
and mutter to themselves under street signs
that all point the wrong way to paradise.

I play charming tune the pied piper taught me
and lead them dancing to the pyramid
where flaming eye of Ishtar watches us
assemble puzzle of our new world view.