Ringing Of My Soul
© Surazeus
2018 05 06
The problem is with open door of lies.
Maybe she thinks we all are happy spies?
Everywhere I go I break the locked door
to find the star angel dead on the floor.
The wind erases my footsteps with fear.
The statue bleeds oil from the righteous spear.
Nobody knows the secrets of the maze
which we indoctrinate as sacred ways.
Our book is missing pages that reveal.
I cannot paint how I know what I feel.
Everything I create with intent care
cracks into mirror shards on the bleak stair.
The wind swallows every sentence I speak.
Without water from your hand I fall weak.
The moment I speak the truth about things
the conversation stops with broken wings.
I long to return to the magic wood.
This is the mountain where our prophet stood.
Behind every door I open I find
blank faces hide the supernatural mind.
I need more fuel to activate my car.
My atoms were forged from exploding star.
Concealed somewhere in riddles I compose
are secrets that motivate my fake pose.
I am mad wizard of our poetry wars.
My brain is blooming weird with mushroom spores.
I walk all night stoned in the sparkling rain
through labyrinth of houses to start my reign.
Back from the Otherworld I bring you faith.
You cannot see my face without my wraith.
I began my journey sailing the stream
according to forgotten mythic scheme.
I am son of Puritan ministers.
You phony singers are but amateurs.
I preach hypnotic spells in every church
but leave dead god to begin my own search.
She grasps his arm and cries his ancient name.
He orchestrates the world-wide psychic game.
The serpent in the apple tree of truth
teaches me the arcane art of the sleuth.
My spirit owl waits in the silver birch.
You cannot throw me off my royal perch.
For thirty years I map the Evening Land
where I wander exiled with broken hand.
The puzzle pieces scattered in the dirt.
I apologize to all those I hurt.
For just one moment in the flash of time
I see the most secret image of rhyme.
The agony of loss will dissipate.
I climb mountains with emotional freight.
They squabble over foul corpse of the king
while I stand by indifferent sea and sing.
I feel my spirit in the Timeless Void.
How am I nothing more than mute android?
If I can spark the ringing of my soul
I might drink energy of the White Whole.
We tune in to weird channel of the Mind.
We cannot escape memories that bind.
Nothing is everything, pulsing with light,
so I spread invisible wings in flight.
The angel reads dreams by the babbling brook.
I stop by the peach tree to take a look.
I give my eyes back to infinite view,
assembling its puzzle from each lost clue.
© Surazeus
2018 05 06
The problem is with open door of lies.
Maybe she thinks we all are happy spies?
Everywhere I go I break the locked door
to find the star angel dead on the floor.
The wind erases my footsteps with fear.
The statue bleeds oil from the righteous spear.
Nobody knows the secrets of the maze
which we indoctrinate as sacred ways.
Our book is missing pages that reveal.
I cannot paint how I know what I feel.
Everything I create with intent care
cracks into mirror shards on the bleak stair.
The wind swallows every sentence I speak.
Without water from your hand I fall weak.
The moment I speak the truth about things
the conversation stops with broken wings.
I long to return to the magic wood.
This is the mountain where our prophet stood.
Behind every door I open I find
blank faces hide the supernatural mind.
I need more fuel to activate my car.
My atoms were forged from exploding star.
Concealed somewhere in riddles I compose
are secrets that motivate my fake pose.
I am mad wizard of our poetry wars.
My brain is blooming weird with mushroom spores.
I walk all night stoned in the sparkling rain
through labyrinth of houses to start my reign.
Back from the Otherworld I bring you faith.
You cannot see my face without my wraith.
I began my journey sailing the stream
according to forgotten mythic scheme.
I am son of Puritan ministers.
You phony singers are but amateurs.
I preach hypnotic spells in every church
but leave dead god to begin my own search.
She grasps his arm and cries his ancient name.
He orchestrates the world-wide psychic game.
The serpent in the apple tree of truth
teaches me the arcane art of the sleuth.
My spirit owl waits in the silver birch.
You cannot throw me off my royal perch.
For thirty years I map the Evening Land
where I wander exiled with broken hand.
The puzzle pieces scattered in the dirt.
I apologize to all those I hurt.
For just one moment in the flash of time
I see the most secret image of rhyme.
The agony of loss will dissipate.
I climb mountains with emotional freight.
They squabble over foul corpse of the king
while I stand by indifferent sea and sing.
I feel my spirit in the Timeless Void.
How am I nothing more than mute android?
If I can spark the ringing of my soul
I might drink energy of the White Whole.
We tune in to weird channel of the Mind.
We cannot escape memories that bind.
Nothing is everything, pulsing with light,
so I spread invisible wings in flight.
The angel reads dreams by the babbling brook.
I stop by the peach tree to take a look.
I give my eyes back to infinite view,
assembling its puzzle from each lost clue.
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