Stranger In This Mirror Eye
© Surazeus
2018 05 17
The old blind man in the empty tower hall
sings ancient hymns to the audience of ghosts
who flutter invisible wings of light.
Water splashes in the stone fountain pool,
preserving secret words of weird concepts
not yet invented by people whose hearts
ache for passionate romance in moonlight.
The old man in the rancid nursing home
stares at the television on the wall
that flashes images in ceaseless flow
of fragmented memory from lost worlds
because his brain short-circuits signal blare
of sirens wailing when green planes drop bombs
that blast the cathedral to heaps of rubble.
He watches little girl in frilly dress
skip among flowers in the ancient garden
then stop beside the fountain sparkling gold
and sing about the angel without wings.
The old man struggles to rise from his seat
and reach for the rose on the mantle shelf
that vanishes from photo of the girl.
Stepping outside the glass door of the store
that tinkles the bell of the fairy house,
the old man inside body of the boy,
he was too long ago to question why,
steps into glaring sunlight of midmorning
to see large metal cars of shining glass
racing swift through the city maze of greed,
honking between giant blue towers of glass,
then spreads his angel wings to fly away
but his wings are gone so he walks alone
in teeming crowd of people without names.
Unmoored from the world of power and prestige
that once dominated our mental space,
the old man stares amazed at crowds of people
who gaze at little books of silver glass
that glow in their hands with light of the stars.
Kings and presidents and gods come and go
but someone always wants to play the role.
While dancing in sparkles of falling snow
we kiss and become part of the White Whole.
When I first saw her eyes across the room
the teeming world of people in a rush
slowed down into suspended flow of change
while I moved toward her through the winding maze,
enchanted by the mystery of her soul
that radiates from the passion of her smile.
I never tire of looking in her eyes
though we have been together many years
beyond the count of wild immortal tears
to walk in harmony of aching hope
in elegant dance of attentive care
reflected by the spirit of the skies
our two minds weave into one crystal glow
whenever we go walking in the snow.
I know I wrote about it all last year
in the secret book that no one will read
because I bare our private agony
of lusting desire to the watching glare
of hungry eyes that hope to know the why
of contagious reason connecting our hearts
strong as roots of pines that curl to the core
of our wildly spinning world through my eye,
so that is how we know each other well.
In weird genetic code of aching words
I weave the secret truth of our strong love
that replicates each scene of interaction
we choose to play in our daily routine
which maintains energy of turbid action
to motivate our hearts in sacred role
serious as the god who pretends to die
while I play the jester in court of lies.
I see some stranger in this mirror eye
who knows me better than I know myself.
The old blind man in rusty trailer house
recites long poem to whispering ghosts
who chirp appreciation for his vision
about people who free themselves from God.
Though you are dead I will never forget
how your eyes gleam truth every time we sing.
© Surazeus
2018 05 17
The old blind man in the empty tower hall
sings ancient hymns to the audience of ghosts
who flutter invisible wings of light.
Water splashes in the stone fountain pool,
preserving secret words of weird concepts
not yet invented by people whose hearts
ache for passionate romance in moonlight.
The old man in the rancid nursing home
stares at the television on the wall
that flashes images in ceaseless flow
of fragmented memory from lost worlds
because his brain short-circuits signal blare
of sirens wailing when green planes drop bombs
that blast the cathedral to heaps of rubble.
He watches little girl in frilly dress
skip among flowers in the ancient garden
then stop beside the fountain sparkling gold
and sing about the angel without wings.
The old man struggles to rise from his seat
and reach for the rose on the mantle shelf
that vanishes from photo of the girl.
Stepping outside the glass door of the store
that tinkles the bell of the fairy house,
the old man inside body of the boy,
he was too long ago to question why,
steps into glaring sunlight of midmorning
to see large metal cars of shining glass
racing swift through the city maze of greed,
honking between giant blue towers of glass,
then spreads his angel wings to fly away
but his wings are gone so he walks alone
in teeming crowd of people without names.
Unmoored from the world of power and prestige
that once dominated our mental space,
the old man stares amazed at crowds of people
who gaze at little books of silver glass
that glow in their hands with light of the stars.
Kings and presidents and gods come and go
but someone always wants to play the role.
While dancing in sparkles of falling snow
we kiss and become part of the White Whole.
When I first saw her eyes across the room
the teeming world of people in a rush
slowed down into suspended flow of change
while I moved toward her through the winding maze,
enchanted by the mystery of her soul
that radiates from the passion of her smile.
I never tire of looking in her eyes
though we have been together many years
beyond the count of wild immortal tears
to walk in harmony of aching hope
in elegant dance of attentive care
reflected by the spirit of the skies
our two minds weave into one crystal glow
whenever we go walking in the snow.
I know I wrote about it all last year
in the secret book that no one will read
because I bare our private agony
of lusting desire to the watching glare
of hungry eyes that hope to know the why
of contagious reason connecting our hearts
strong as roots of pines that curl to the core
of our wildly spinning world through my eye,
so that is how we know each other well.
In weird genetic code of aching words
I weave the secret truth of our strong love
that replicates each scene of interaction
we choose to play in our daily routine
which maintains energy of turbid action
to motivate our hearts in sacred role
serious as the god who pretends to die
while I play the jester in court of lies.
I see some stranger in this mirror eye
who knows me better than I know myself.
The old blind man in rusty trailer house
recites long poem to whispering ghosts
who chirp appreciation for his vision
about people who free themselves from God.
Though you are dead I will never forget
how your eyes gleam truth every time we sing.
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