Shadows Of Dead People
© Surazeus
2018 05 09
They keep chasing me through the maze of faces,
the shadows of dead people whose real names
I forgot after I wrote them in sand
because the moonlight shows me where to fly.
I stop in the silver rain by a street sign
and feel the water of the moon dissolve
aching sorrow I did not know was stuck
in cracks of my heart where the light bleeds out.
The sun gleams gold through ragged clouds of rain
and shows me where the shining river flows
between jagged hills full of watching pine trees
where crumbling castles keep lost memories.
When I speak the sorrow breaking my heart
I hear words everyone else spoke before
so I stop speaking when those borrowed words
falsify anguish, and stare at bright grass.
Why the gold sun gleaming on the book page
stops time and suspends aging of my soul
I cannot calculate through fractured mirror
which reflects a different face every day.
I run so far into labyrinth of lies
I wander alone on strange timeless meadow
where sun rays illuminate jagged peak
so I live in cave of its hollow heart.
I roll the visions that flash through my eyes
in bundle of leaves and sticks bound by vines
and give them to the woman I admire
but she laughs and tosses it in the mud.
The feelings I express, in art I make,
present fake emotions behind glass mask,
so I paint words with blood on temple wall
then mute the oracle by writing riddles.
I divide myself with invented names
into one hundred people who attend
lectures on the Personality Code
before each one founds empire of the Self.
I sit alone in the cave of lost shadows
and sing the dictionary of world knowledge
to prove that I am pope of my religion
and my mother is the goddess we worship.
Each sign I find on the Highway of Hope
I paint blank and white as the morning sky
so no one can know where my home town thrives
because we picnic in the park on Sunday.
I stretch my soul on the indifferent grass
on the nameless hill in the busy city
and try to empty my mind of all thoughts
so I know nothing but Sky Purity.
After I finish singing each riddling spell
that fractures our world into puzzle pieces
I draw new map of world mythology
where every person plays the role of God.
The spurious clown who crowns himself the king
demands I pay to watch his bogus show
but I discount his tenuous assertion
that he can wield the Scepter of Veracity.
The wings that crack the mirror of my skull,
escaping stereotype through wise conception,
are neither from the angel nor the devil,
and no one says a word, though they are huge.
My head wings flap like the hawk on my wrist
who explains why I cannot meet myself
because I will meet my true destiny
on the road I run to escape its code.
While I carve lines of words on marble wall
my eyes envision Temple of the Soul
where tale of every soul who ever lived
can be observed on television screens.
When the shadows of dead people with names
surround me where I sit by the brick wall
I paint their faces on the trunks of trees
and imagine they are still chasing me.
I paint their faces on the broken doors
of abandoned houses where they grew up
playing chess with their monsters they ignore
because I am only one pawn in their game.
I stop in the silver rain and look up
to taste the pure light hidden in the apple,
but when I take off the mask I invented
I become the self the stars want to play.
© Surazeus
2018 05 09
They keep chasing me through the maze of faces,
the shadows of dead people whose real names
I forgot after I wrote them in sand
because the moonlight shows me where to fly.
I stop in the silver rain by a street sign
and feel the water of the moon dissolve
aching sorrow I did not know was stuck
in cracks of my heart where the light bleeds out.
The sun gleams gold through ragged clouds of rain
and shows me where the shining river flows
between jagged hills full of watching pine trees
where crumbling castles keep lost memories.
When I speak the sorrow breaking my heart
I hear words everyone else spoke before
so I stop speaking when those borrowed words
falsify anguish, and stare at bright grass.
Why the gold sun gleaming on the book page
stops time and suspends aging of my soul
I cannot calculate through fractured mirror
which reflects a different face every day.
I run so far into labyrinth of lies
I wander alone on strange timeless meadow
where sun rays illuminate jagged peak
so I live in cave of its hollow heart.
I roll the visions that flash through my eyes
in bundle of leaves and sticks bound by vines
and give them to the woman I admire
but she laughs and tosses it in the mud.
The feelings I express, in art I make,
present fake emotions behind glass mask,
so I paint words with blood on temple wall
then mute the oracle by writing riddles.
I divide myself with invented names
into one hundred people who attend
lectures on the Personality Code
before each one founds empire of the Self.
I sit alone in the cave of lost shadows
and sing the dictionary of world knowledge
to prove that I am pope of my religion
and my mother is the goddess we worship.
Each sign I find on the Highway of Hope
I paint blank and white as the morning sky
so no one can know where my home town thrives
because we picnic in the park on Sunday.
I stretch my soul on the indifferent grass
on the nameless hill in the busy city
and try to empty my mind of all thoughts
so I know nothing but Sky Purity.
After I finish singing each riddling spell
that fractures our world into puzzle pieces
I draw new map of world mythology
where every person plays the role of God.
The spurious clown who crowns himself the king
demands I pay to watch his bogus show
but I discount his tenuous assertion
that he can wield the Scepter of Veracity.
The wings that crack the mirror of my skull,
escaping stereotype through wise conception,
are neither from the angel nor the devil,
and no one says a word, though they are huge.
My head wings flap like the hawk on my wrist
who explains why I cannot meet myself
because I will meet my true destiny
on the road I run to escape its code.
While I carve lines of words on marble wall
my eyes envision Temple of the Soul
where tale of every soul who ever lived
can be observed on television screens.
When the shadows of dead people with names
surround me where I sit by the brick wall
I paint their faces on the trunks of trees
and imagine they are still chasing me.
I paint their faces on the broken doors
of abandoned houses where they grew up
playing chess with their monsters they ignore
because I am only one pawn in their game.
I stop in the silver rain and look up
to taste the pure light hidden in the apple,
but when I take off the mask I invented
I become the self the stars want to play.
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