Pent Walls Of Paradise

Pent Walls Of Paradise
© Surazeus
2018 04 28

The gray river flows between bare white trees
in pale blue light of dawn that reveals why
I cannot remember my childhood name
that floats with dead leaves to the shining sea.

I follow the red-brick path between tulips
flaring pink and orange as sunrise on hills
where strangers eat rich meals in doorless homes
while I claw for seeds in wet pungent soil.

I refuse to own any land or object
outside my body because fragile humans
appear and disappear in flow of time
so how can one claim any spot their own?

Each time I sit down somewhere in the world
someone appears to tell me I must leave,
and they hurt me if I refuse to move,
so I keep roaming nowhere down the road.

Why must one person, who kills other people
if they refuse to obey their commands,
declare themselves ruler of bordered space
in ruthless game of power to control souls?

I am the messenger of the whole world
for I bring no command to obey rules
but information about how things work
so we can act to create not destroy.

I will sit in this garden of gold flowers
under this tree that bears fresh fruit to eat
and meditate on the meaning of life
that each person invents for their own good.

Your angry declaration that this garden
is your private space where I cannot stay
means nothing to me for we cannot both
occupy the same space at the same time.

Pent in stone walls of false security,
constructed as haven from brutal wars,
I ache to leave this paradise of peace
and follow the gushing river of hope.

Each tear of rain that falls through the clear ether
contributes to the surging flood of change
that carries my boat past huge city towers
so I wander debonair hills of grass.

I cannot hold the wind pent in my net
except its invisible force propels
my fragile ship bouncing on seething torrents
that push me past civil towns to the wild sea.

I dance the signless road from town to town
on tightly coiled springs of spiraling spells
to leap beyond pent walls of paradise
and explore the waste land of Elysium.

Beyond the city walls I follow him
who longs to find beauty in every truth,
savoring weird smile of the blue firmament,
and talk of truth in lair of wavy grass.

Each new day glides by too soon, he laments,
and drinks the dew as tears that angels lose,
wearing the painted mask of Philomel
so no one on city streets knows his name.

I write my songs on water with pure light
the indifferent sun beams into my brain
by painting letters on pebbles of glass
and tossing them in the swift stream of time.

We sit together by the singing sea
and watch the spirit of Alastor rise
on wings of fire to play the lyre of Hermes
because we followed Orpheus back home.

The flaming angel points to the sea cliff
where every poet who ever breathed the light
gathers in ring of stones to join the choir
so I climb jagged rocks in thundering rain.

I want to join the choir of all world poets
but when I have scaled the cliff of despair
I find ten thousand skulls among cracked gems
singing wordless nothing in wild sea wind.

I sit in the ruins of some old temple
dedicated to nameless god of tales
and translate the whistles of their lost voices
in coiled pentameter verse of my spells.

I scribble melodies of aching faith
calculated by formulas through sorrow
on fragile leaves that crumble in the wind
because our songs are written in the atoms.