Library No One Visits
© Surazeus
2018 05 22
I draw a map of the world on the window
of the last stone cathedral in the world.
The waves of the ocean swirl around rocks
smoothed round by the stories of our dead souls.
Three times the little girl in a white dress
stands under the apple tree in the park.
Where can we go when the road is erased
and all the signs are drowned in the sad sea.
Tearing pages from forgotten phone books,
the little boy with no eyes laughs the rain.
I walked across Europe ten thousand years,
along every river that still flows free.
I see an old man painting a self portrait,
but when I get close the colors are words.
The hyacinth girl cries in the blue rain,
clutching roots of flowers in her numb hands.
Precise mechanisms of televisions
reveal masks we pretend we do not wear.
She comes over the hill with the ripe sun
and holds me in her arms wide as the sea.
Because the map of Europe I redrew
shrinks around the bodies of naked lovers.
Although you lick the stamp with my blank face
a white horse lies down beside you and cries.
In the city where no one has a name
the girl invites me to ride in her carriage.
The twelve-year-old girl with long curly hair
walks me through the museum of blank masks.
All of this will never end anywhere
since the unseen hand opens the last book.
We are loved though no one can love us back
now that we have everything we can give.
The young man who steals paintings with his eyes
follows footsteps of Baudelaire through Paris.
He drops torn fragments of poems on the street
like Hansel dropping bread crumbs in the woods.
Ten thousand robots follow trail of words
through the maze where the skulls of prophets sing.
You climb these lines of verse down the night
to make shadows dance on cave wall of Plato.
You stand on the high Brooklyn Bridge with Hart
and sing with vibration of divine wind.
You dive in River of Forgetfulness
and swim backward from the Land of the Dead.
You follow Alastor to the Black Sea
where blustering storm overturns your boat.
You carry dead Adonais in your arms
and write his true name on the flowing water.
We watch every movie every composed
on the television no one can see.
The spotted owl on the oak branch contrives
to realign stars that favor true love.
The blind man wearing broad-rim leather hat
sings backward every novel ever written.
The prophet no one can hear explains why
the sky is silk as wings of butterflies.
I copy all my memories on disk
and store it in library no one visits.
She writes my name on the last fallen leaf
then kisses me when it crumbles to dust.
© Surazeus
2018 05 22
I draw a map of the world on the window
of the last stone cathedral in the world.
The waves of the ocean swirl around rocks
smoothed round by the stories of our dead souls.
Three times the little girl in a white dress
stands under the apple tree in the park.
Where can we go when the road is erased
and all the signs are drowned in the sad sea.
Tearing pages from forgotten phone books,
the little boy with no eyes laughs the rain.
I walked across Europe ten thousand years,
along every river that still flows free.
I see an old man painting a self portrait,
but when I get close the colors are words.
The hyacinth girl cries in the blue rain,
clutching roots of flowers in her numb hands.
Precise mechanisms of televisions
reveal masks we pretend we do not wear.
She comes over the hill with the ripe sun
and holds me in her arms wide as the sea.
Because the map of Europe I redrew
shrinks around the bodies of naked lovers.
Although you lick the stamp with my blank face
a white horse lies down beside you and cries.
In the city where no one has a name
the girl invites me to ride in her carriage.
The twelve-year-old girl with long curly hair
walks me through the museum of blank masks.
All of this will never end anywhere
since the unseen hand opens the last book.
We are loved though no one can love us back
now that we have everything we can give.
The young man who steals paintings with his eyes
follows footsteps of Baudelaire through Paris.
He drops torn fragments of poems on the street
like Hansel dropping bread crumbs in the woods.
Ten thousand robots follow trail of words
through the maze where the skulls of prophets sing.
You climb these lines of verse down the night
to make shadows dance on cave wall of Plato.
You stand on the high Brooklyn Bridge with Hart
and sing with vibration of divine wind.
You dive in River of Forgetfulness
and swim backward from the Land of the Dead.
You follow Alastor to the Black Sea
where blustering storm overturns your boat.
You carry dead Adonais in your arms
and write his true name on the flowing water.
We watch every movie every composed
on the television no one can see.
The spotted owl on the oak branch contrives
to realign stars that favor true love.
The blind man wearing broad-rim leather hat
sings backward every novel ever written.
The prophet no one can hear explains why
the sky is silk as wings of butterflies.
I copy all my memories on disk
and store it in library no one visits.
She writes my name on the last fallen leaf
then kisses me when it crumbles to dust.
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