Laughter With Love For Death
© Surazeus
2018 04 20
In these sultry days of fresh April showers
I have written over one hundred weird poems
because I am burning with a great fire
of laughter through love for death from desire.
I soar on angel wings to the dead moon
to float in the silence of hungry death
where the spider of the sun weaves star light
from pulsing atoms that spark my soul awake.
Because a thousand girls around the world
died today from accidents and disease
I sit in grass and stare at the orange tree,
longing to sing to every one with love.
Ten thousand poets who once lived on Earth
leave words of their dreams on pages of books
which sparkle from friction of paradox,
inspiring me to sing with the mute world.
I bring the tears of everyone who lived
and suffered from the horror of despair
to water the moon so its dry dust sprouts
tendrils of vines plump with the grapes of wrath.
This paradise which blooms from tears of pain
shimmers false as mascara models wear
when they pose with elegant grace of lust
before flashing eye of the camera.
She glides with graceful beauty in the wind,
the Queen of Manhattan who models gowns,
fragile as the flower in hurricane howl
who blooms again to drink the sparkling rain.
I hold her when she cries about dark fears
that haunt her footsteps in the halls of hope
so she can paint the horror on his face,
revealing face of Death with mask of life.
© Surazeus
2018 04 20
In these sultry days of fresh April showers
I have written over one hundred weird poems
because I am burning with a great fire
of laughter through love for death from desire.
I soar on angel wings to the dead moon
to float in the silence of hungry death
where the spider of the sun weaves star light
from pulsing atoms that spark my soul awake.
Because a thousand girls around the world
died today from accidents and disease
I sit in grass and stare at the orange tree,
longing to sing to every one with love.
Ten thousand poets who once lived on Earth
leave words of their dreams on pages of books
which sparkle from friction of paradox,
inspiring me to sing with the mute world.
I bring the tears of everyone who lived
and suffered from the horror of despair
to water the moon so its dry dust sprouts
tendrils of vines plump with the grapes of wrath.
This paradise which blooms from tears of pain
shimmers false as mascara models wear
when they pose with elegant grace of lust
before flashing eye of the camera.
She glides with graceful beauty in the wind,
the Queen of Manhattan who models gowns,
fragile as the flower in hurricane howl
who blooms again to drink the sparkling rain.
I hold her when she cries about dark fears
that haunt her footsteps in the halls of hope
so she can paint the horror on his face,
revealing face of Death with mask of life.
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