Another Starry Night
© Surazeus
2018 06 03
Since today might be my last day on Earth
I will sit in the sunshine on the grass
and do nothing but watch clouds transform souls
through elegant ballet of wind-wild swirls.
I remember well the hour I was born
and every day since then with clear recall
weird visions I dreamed, wild acts I performed,
and words I carved on the trunks of dead trees.
Gathering feathers that fell from wings of ravens,
I weave new wings that flutter on my back
when I hop through streets of the sea-side town
and run along cliffs, pretending to fly.
I stop in the field of wheat to observe
strange man in the white smock wielding his brush
to capture bright vision of hills and seas
with every stroke of my blood on his canvas.
I want to transcend this body of flesh
so I run to catch the wind of the sea
and leap toward the clouds with my arms outstretched
but tumble rolling on the broken world.
I try to stay awake long after sunset
as long as I can maintain conscious glow,
but deep I sink floating into sea of flares
who transform into angels on church wall.
Awake I snap in field of chirping crickets
so I walk through wheat rustling in the wind
toward the moon that shines over the church steeple
which illuminates our world with blue horror.
When horror strikes my heart with freezing blow
I sit on the white stone by the black river
and listen to voice of the Earth recite
names of dead people I will never meet.
The painter and two boys who drink warm wine
dance laughing around the ancient oak tree,
and the boy dressed like a Texas cowboy
raises his rifle and shoots at the devil.
The painter with hair red as Reynard the Fox
clutches his stomach and falls to the ground,
and the cowboy exclaims shock and remorse,
then runs away to vanish in the mist.
I help the painter stand on trembling feet,
and guide him back to the inn where he lives,
but he stops on the hill above small town
and points to stars that throb in swirling flames.
"Now I become another starry night,"
he whispers as I lay him by the inn,
then valkyrie come down from swirling clouds
to bear him as they sing to bright Valhalla.
Flapping my raven wings, I sing his name
while I run along the river that flows
gold as the moon that glows within my eyes,
then I perch in branches of the dead tree.
Since today is now my last day on Earth
I watch people bear dead painter on bier
to the hill where they hang him on a cross
and thread computer cables through his brain.
© Surazeus
2018 06 03
Since today might be my last day on Earth
I will sit in the sunshine on the grass
and do nothing but watch clouds transform souls
through elegant ballet of wind-wild swirls.
I remember well the hour I was born
and every day since then with clear recall
weird visions I dreamed, wild acts I performed,
and words I carved on the trunks of dead trees.
Gathering feathers that fell from wings of ravens,
I weave new wings that flutter on my back
when I hop through streets of the sea-side town
and run along cliffs, pretending to fly.
I stop in the field of wheat to observe
strange man in the white smock wielding his brush
to capture bright vision of hills and seas
with every stroke of my blood on his canvas.
I want to transcend this body of flesh
so I run to catch the wind of the sea
and leap toward the clouds with my arms outstretched
but tumble rolling on the broken world.
I try to stay awake long after sunset
as long as I can maintain conscious glow,
but deep I sink floating into sea of flares
who transform into angels on church wall.
Awake I snap in field of chirping crickets
so I walk through wheat rustling in the wind
toward the moon that shines over the church steeple
which illuminates our world with blue horror.
When horror strikes my heart with freezing blow
I sit on the white stone by the black river
and listen to voice of the Earth recite
names of dead people I will never meet.
The painter and two boys who drink warm wine
dance laughing around the ancient oak tree,
and the boy dressed like a Texas cowboy
raises his rifle and shoots at the devil.
The painter with hair red as Reynard the Fox
clutches his stomach and falls to the ground,
and the cowboy exclaims shock and remorse,
then runs away to vanish in the mist.
I help the painter stand on trembling feet,
and guide him back to the inn where he lives,
but he stops on the hill above small town
and points to stars that throb in swirling flames.
"Now I become another starry night,"
he whispers as I lay him by the inn,
then valkyrie come down from swirling clouds
to bear him as they sing to bright Valhalla.
Flapping my raven wings, I sing his name
while I run along the river that flows
gold as the moon that glows within my eyes,
then I perch in branches of the dead tree.
Since today is now my last day on Earth
I watch people bear dead painter on bier
to the hill where they hang him on a cross
and thread computer cables through his brain.
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