From Her Broken Heart
© Surazeus
2018 05 22
The endless iterations of our dreams
that dramatize reincarnations of our souls
through every moment when two lovers meet
reveal how sunlight transforms into people
in singing bubbles of clear consciousness
that bulge from primordial ooze of lust.
The young girl kicks her legs on the swing
and ignores the young boy who holds an apple
while three horses gallop along the river
which accumulates from wild falling rain.
The old woman in the long black-lace dress
touches the window with her trembling hand
alone in the mansion with forty rooms
and remembers the names of all nine boys
who loved her in the summer of the world
though none ever asked her to marry him.
The young girl on the branch of the oak tree
gazes at clouds that flash over the lake
and ponders why the words tree, truth, and trust
all spring from the word three, three fingers up.
The old woman gazes at her frail hand,
thin as paper on which she once wrote letters
to people who died centuries ago,
and marvels at how rays of sunlight gleam
through the shimmering web of her old soul
which casts no shadow on the rippling lake.
The young girl turns pages of the large book,
reading long poem Spirit of Solitude
about Alastor exploring the world
to find the girl who could transform his soul.
The old woman cradles in her thin arms
the fragile porcelain doll with blue eyes
and long gold curls made from real human hair,
then sings old English ballad Lovely Joan,
she leaped on his horse and galloped away,
but stops and stares out the window all day.
The young girl walking by the field of wheat
watches the boy ride on the milk-white steed
and hopes he offers her his ring of gold
but blushes like red rose when he rides by.
The old woman turns on the television
and feels her body vanish in sunlight
that slants through the broken window of hope
when she becomes the noble character
of the simple girl who is crowned the queen
and must navigate labyrinth of desire.
The young girl walks the empty country road
then steps on the bank tangled with thick weeds
when the horseless carriage with large wood wheels
speeds by fast as the wind into the future.
The old woman remembers his blue eyes
and gold curls like the statue of Apollo
who stands beside her, frozen in white marble
no matter how many times she would kiss
lips that never speak her name she forgot
so she reaches out to hold his cold hand.
The young girl takes the glasses off his face
and tosses his book of poems in the flowers
then pushes him down and sits on his lap
and kisses his mouth as he grips her thighs.
The old woman lays white rose on the grave
where they buried the dead baby she bore,
breathing fresh wind that blows over the lake,
and thinks about the multitudes of mothers
who lost children, and feels grief amplified
in glare of indifferent sun on her face.
The young girl watches the young boy walk away
to join the army and fight for his country
where bombs blow his body to smithereens
so the fruit tree grows from her broken heart.
© Surazeus
2018 05 22
The endless iterations of our dreams
that dramatize reincarnations of our souls
through every moment when two lovers meet
reveal how sunlight transforms into people
in singing bubbles of clear consciousness
that bulge from primordial ooze of lust.
The young girl kicks her legs on the swing
and ignores the young boy who holds an apple
while three horses gallop along the river
which accumulates from wild falling rain.
The old woman in the long black-lace dress
touches the window with her trembling hand
alone in the mansion with forty rooms
and remembers the names of all nine boys
who loved her in the summer of the world
though none ever asked her to marry him.
The young girl on the branch of the oak tree
gazes at clouds that flash over the lake
and ponders why the words tree, truth, and trust
all spring from the word three, three fingers up.
The old woman gazes at her frail hand,
thin as paper on which she once wrote letters
to people who died centuries ago,
and marvels at how rays of sunlight gleam
through the shimmering web of her old soul
which casts no shadow on the rippling lake.
The young girl turns pages of the large book,
reading long poem Spirit of Solitude
about Alastor exploring the world
to find the girl who could transform his soul.
The old woman cradles in her thin arms
the fragile porcelain doll with blue eyes
and long gold curls made from real human hair,
then sings old English ballad Lovely Joan,
she leaped on his horse and galloped away,
but stops and stares out the window all day.
The young girl walking by the field of wheat
watches the boy ride on the milk-white steed
and hopes he offers her his ring of gold
but blushes like red rose when he rides by.
The old woman turns on the television
and feels her body vanish in sunlight
that slants through the broken window of hope
when she becomes the noble character
of the simple girl who is crowned the queen
and must navigate labyrinth of desire.
The young girl walks the empty country road
then steps on the bank tangled with thick weeds
when the horseless carriage with large wood wheels
speeds by fast as the wind into the future.
The old woman remembers his blue eyes
and gold curls like the statue of Apollo
who stands beside her, frozen in white marble
no matter how many times she would kiss
lips that never speak her name she forgot
so she reaches out to hold his cold hand.
The young girl takes the glasses off his face
and tosses his book of poems in the flowers
then pushes him down and sits on his lap
and kisses his mouth as he grips her thighs.
The old woman lays white rose on the grave
where they buried the dead baby she bore,
breathing fresh wind that blows over the lake,
and thinks about the multitudes of mothers
who lost children, and feels grief amplified
in glare of indifferent sun on her face.
The young girl watches the young boy walk away
to join the army and fight for his country
where bombs blow his body to smithereens
so the fruit tree grows from her broken heart.
No comments:
Post a Comment