Empty Church Of Ghosts
© Surazeus
2018 04 07
The last time I went to church thirty years
before World War Three destroyed our empire,
when angels still came to me with new scrolls
explaining how to build engines for cars,
Apollo appeared to me in star ship
of seven spinning disks with flashing gems,
and gave me magic harp that will enchant
hearts of people lost in the labyrinth.
Long I wandered lost in the labyrinth
of glowing television screens that show
gods acting in tragedies about power,
sitting in cafes out of pouring rain,
and snipping from dictionaries each word
I feel conceals arcane mystery of death,
then gluing them on blank museum wall
in vast collage on history of mankind.
Before I left church I took off the mask
my mother made for me, and laid it down
on the bench beside Bible and hymn book,
though I could not find the gold crown with gems
the preacher promised every saint would get
along with their own planet teeming life,
but I could not take off my angel wings
so I hide them under my long black coat.
I cannot take them out and show the world
for jealous people would crucify me
on the telephone pole of tangled wires,
yet when I pause at midnight in the rain
I hear the voices of people long dead
from every conversation ever beamed
along the wires where ravens with white wings
watch me walking lost in the labyrinth.
Better to wander in the labyrinth
of human cities, that sprawl across Earth
in vast metropolis of lust for power,
than reign in hologram of paradise
that preachers conjure in rotten church walls
when they promise sweet afterlife in heaven
to people suffering in harsh poverty
since preachers buy mansions while people starve.
The poisonous snake writhes around my arm
while I preach of faith in the zombie king,
and children wearing long robes sing in choir
about the glorious citadel of heaven
where every believer in resurrection
will live in their own tower of shining mirrors,
but my wings tear through armor of despair
and I fly howling over city buildings.
While my six brothers fight over power crown
that fell from head of the world emperor
I walk the misty woods of Mount Takoma,
searching for the woman with shining eyes
who only ever smiles in my weird dreams,
because I know she must be real somewhere,
so I am not lost in my labyrinth
where statues of women stare beyond death.
I buy old crumbling cathedral on street
of laughing clowns to found my own new church
where I am all prophet, pope, priest, and monk,
composing new sacred scripture of heroes
who explore the true nature of the world
where people are both predator and prey,
so I sing hymns in empty church of ghosts
epic poem about no one seeking truth.
© Surazeus
2018 04 07
The last time I went to church thirty years
before World War Three destroyed our empire,
when angels still came to me with new scrolls
explaining how to build engines for cars,
Apollo appeared to me in star ship
of seven spinning disks with flashing gems,
and gave me magic harp that will enchant
hearts of people lost in the labyrinth.
Long I wandered lost in the labyrinth
of glowing television screens that show
gods acting in tragedies about power,
sitting in cafes out of pouring rain,
and snipping from dictionaries each word
I feel conceals arcane mystery of death,
then gluing them on blank museum wall
in vast collage on history of mankind.
Before I left church I took off the mask
my mother made for me, and laid it down
on the bench beside Bible and hymn book,
though I could not find the gold crown with gems
the preacher promised every saint would get
along with their own planet teeming life,
but I could not take off my angel wings
so I hide them under my long black coat.
I cannot take them out and show the world
for jealous people would crucify me
on the telephone pole of tangled wires,
yet when I pause at midnight in the rain
I hear the voices of people long dead
from every conversation ever beamed
along the wires where ravens with white wings
watch me walking lost in the labyrinth.
Better to wander in the labyrinth
of human cities, that sprawl across Earth
in vast metropolis of lust for power,
than reign in hologram of paradise
that preachers conjure in rotten church walls
when they promise sweet afterlife in heaven
to people suffering in harsh poverty
since preachers buy mansions while people starve.
The poisonous snake writhes around my arm
while I preach of faith in the zombie king,
and children wearing long robes sing in choir
about the glorious citadel of heaven
where every believer in resurrection
will live in their own tower of shining mirrors,
but my wings tear through armor of despair
and I fly howling over city buildings.
While my six brothers fight over power crown
that fell from head of the world emperor
I walk the misty woods of Mount Takoma,
searching for the woman with shining eyes
who only ever smiles in my weird dreams,
because I know she must be real somewhere,
so I am not lost in my labyrinth
where statues of women stare beyond death.
I buy old crumbling cathedral on street
of laughing clowns to found my own new church
where I am all prophet, pope, priest, and monk,
composing new sacred scripture of heroes
who explore the true nature of the world
where people are both predator and prey,
so I sing hymns in empty church of ghosts
epic poem about no one seeking truth.
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