Skeleton Of Our Forgotten Tales
© Surazeus
2017 04 19
Beside red brick wall of the ancient hall,
where professors teach students in classrooms,
the old bearded man on splintered bench
sits relaxed in gleaming summer sunlight,
and watches history of humanity
swirl around his feet on the lawn of grass
that grows from graves of countless human souls.
Eyes flickering with visions of tall men
who lead huge armies over wind-swept plains,
then build vast city maze of ziggurats
that teem with human life a thousand years,
the old man watches generations sprout
from passionate lust in waves of desire,
swirl across the world in nations and empires,
then vanish in wind, leaving piles of skulls
that clatter as they laugh in drenching rain.
Gods, kings, prophets, professors, preachers, priests,
singers, actors, comedians, and poets
stand on pyramids before crowds of people,
every generation for thousands of years,
and mold with words how everybody feels,
so tense emotions seething from their hearts
condense in scenes of action they express,
like ocean waves rising from lightless depths
to swirl across the stage of history.
The ringing words we speak with dancing tongues
generate visions of people who act
performing roles in play of human life,
and thus construct inside our dreaming brains
virtual world that reflects real world of forms,
so each mind models universe of atoms
that help us each envision our own self
as we live in the theater of hope.
Shouting words to express visions of life,
each person thinks reflects real world of things,
talkers and singers compete to present
most comprehensive model that explains
true nature of everything that exists
and how they interact in cyclic flash
of pulsing energy through constant motion,
so some ascend high pyramid of fame
while others wander lost in labyrinth
of nameless obscurity, seeking wealth,
but all performers die and disappear,
exiting the vast stage of history.
All famous people who once lived on Earth
were real bodies composed of pulsing atoms,
but they died, and consciousness of their souls
vanished like candle flame snuffed in storm wind,
then admirers told stories of their lives
and composed their tales in text to preserve
true memory of their actions and speeches,
thus poets create visions of human life
so each new generation who reads tales
envisions character of that great person
which performs like puppet inside their brains.
All the great souls of history, revered
as gods and prophets of ancient religions,
once so alive in bodies of hungry flesh
are dead, Apollo, Jesus, Krishna, Shiva,
Confucius, Laozi, Buddha, and Mohammed,
and countless others whose names are all lost,
but spirits of their souls in virtual dolls
perform actions of their roles in our minds
so we conjure them alive while we dream,
then we imitate them in our own lives.
Religions are book clubs that venerate
dead people who performed memorable deeds,
encouraging us to worship characters
conjured from the text of stories we read,
for we tell each other stories of action
that provide template for how we perform
when we step forward at our hour of play
on stage of history littered with skulls
and speak the vision that must be expressed
which beams more accurate world view of life
to generate vision of truth in our minds.
Millions of people alive sing together,
countless voices expressing dreams perceived
in cacophonous harmony of thought,
and from our many views emerges clear
one comprehensive vision of all truth
that swirls away like mist in summer sun
when I sail small boat on tranquil gold pond,
but our voices fall silent when we die
and leave nothing but sentences in books,
calcium reef composed by foam of our dreams,
the skeleton of our forgotten tales.
After soaking in sunlight twenty minutes,
the old man stands and stretches arms toward sky
where white clouds billow in boundless blue space
that shimmers with beams of rays bouncing wild,
then walks inside and sits at office desk
where he edits map of Metropolis
to model city where millions of people
swirl together on their daily routines
as they create meaning for their short lives
that swirl in sea currents of history.
© Surazeus
2017 04 19
Beside red brick wall of the ancient hall,
where professors teach students in classrooms,
the old bearded man on splintered bench
sits relaxed in gleaming summer sunlight,
and watches history of humanity
swirl around his feet on the lawn of grass
that grows from graves of countless human souls.
Eyes flickering with visions of tall men
who lead huge armies over wind-swept plains,
then build vast city maze of ziggurats
that teem with human life a thousand years,
the old man watches generations sprout
from passionate lust in waves of desire,
swirl across the world in nations and empires,
then vanish in wind, leaving piles of skulls
that clatter as they laugh in drenching rain.
Gods, kings, prophets, professors, preachers, priests,
singers, actors, comedians, and poets
stand on pyramids before crowds of people,
every generation for thousands of years,
and mold with words how everybody feels,
so tense emotions seething from their hearts
condense in scenes of action they express,
like ocean waves rising from lightless depths
to swirl across the stage of history.
The ringing words we speak with dancing tongues
generate visions of people who act
performing roles in play of human life,
and thus construct inside our dreaming brains
virtual world that reflects real world of forms,
so each mind models universe of atoms
that help us each envision our own self
as we live in the theater of hope.
Shouting words to express visions of life,
each person thinks reflects real world of things,
talkers and singers compete to present
most comprehensive model that explains
true nature of everything that exists
and how they interact in cyclic flash
of pulsing energy through constant motion,
so some ascend high pyramid of fame
while others wander lost in labyrinth
of nameless obscurity, seeking wealth,
but all performers die and disappear,
exiting the vast stage of history.
All famous people who once lived on Earth
were real bodies composed of pulsing atoms,
but they died, and consciousness of their souls
vanished like candle flame snuffed in storm wind,
then admirers told stories of their lives
and composed their tales in text to preserve
true memory of their actions and speeches,
thus poets create visions of human life
so each new generation who reads tales
envisions character of that great person
which performs like puppet inside their brains.
All the great souls of history, revered
as gods and prophets of ancient religions,
once so alive in bodies of hungry flesh
are dead, Apollo, Jesus, Krishna, Shiva,
Confucius, Laozi, Buddha, and Mohammed,
and countless others whose names are all lost,
but spirits of their souls in virtual dolls
perform actions of their roles in our minds
so we conjure them alive while we dream,
then we imitate them in our own lives.
Religions are book clubs that venerate
dead people who performed memorable deeds,
encouraging us to worship characters
conjured from the text of stories we read,
for we tell each other stories of action
that provide template for how we perform
when we step forward at our hour of play
on stage of history littered with skulls
and speak the vision that must be expressed
which beams more accurate world view of life
to generate vision of truth in our minds.
Millions of people alive sing together,
countless voices expressing dreams perceived
in cacophonous harmony of thought,
and from our many views emerges clear
one comprehensive vision of all truth
that swirls away like mist in summer sun
when I sail small boat on tranquil gold pond,
but our voices fall silent when we die
and leave nothing but sentences in books,
calcium reef composed by foam of our dreams,
the skeleton of our forgotten tales.
After soaking in sunlight twenty minutes,
the old man stands and stretches arms toward sky
where white clouds billow in boundless blue space
that shimmers with beams of rays bouncing wild,
then walks inside and sits at office desk
where he edits map of Metropolis
to model city where millions of people
swirl together on their daily routines
as they create meaning for their short lives
that swirl in sea currents of history.
No comments:
Post a Comment