Carnation Stained By Blood
© Surazeus
2018 06 28
Our perception of the atomic world
is a catalog of objective concepts,
so I string concepts together in spells
to generate the vision of each poem.
I like to pretend that my entire life
is a movie no one will ever watch
yet every scene of action and reaction
shines recorded in falling drops of rain.
Hiding in shadows of invented truth,
I catalog concepts of strange qualities
while staring at the tree to penetrate
core of its being, and perceive its true essence.
The oldest man in the world returns home
where he first wrote the most infamous song
that everyone sings while driving alone
on their long journey to the heart of darkness.
The old bearded man smiles at us and laughs,
this aching consciousness of our strange life
is nothing more than our brief flash of light
between two vast infinities of nothing.
The girl with three eyes who hides my lost name
collects every story book in the world
then tears out every page and nails them each
to its own tree in wood of nameless souls.
I read the history of our spinning world
at random as I leap from tree to tree,
assembling puzzle of weird narrative
to preserve unspoken names of the dead.
I go beyond all national narratives
where each religion, company, and cult
worships their founder as the divine god
for they are nothing now but mindless ghosts.
Our world is haunted by the ghosts of founders
whose loyal followers fight brutal wars
over whose vicar on Earth should play god
to maintain dynasties of royal blood.
Concept by concept we dismantle structures
of social power that prop weak patriarchs
who manage institutions of control
which support their false right to make the rules.
Who has the right to live in liberty
and who must bow to wise authority
and who can eat the food that others grow
and who reaps wealth that others make all day?
I sit mute in the library all day
and watch rain sparkle in the setting sun
then sleep in cardboard box among old trees
while you read tale I wrote where I am king.
© Surazeus
2018 06 28
Our perception of the atomic world
is a catalog of objective concepts,
so I string concepts together in spells
to generate the vision of each poem.
I like to pretend that my entire life
is a movie no one will ever watch
yet every scene of action and reaction
shines recorded in falling drops of rain.
Hiding in shadows of invented truth,
I catalog concepts of strange qualities
while staring at the tree to penetrate
core of its being, and perceive its true essence.
The oldest man in the world returns home
where he first wrote the most infamous song
that everyone sings while driving alone
on their long journey to the heart of darkness.
The old bearded man smiles at us and laughs,
this aching consciousness of our strange life
is nothing more than our brief flash of light
between two vast infinities of nothing.
The girl with three eyes who hides my lost name
collects every story book in the world
then tears out every page and nails them each
to its own tree in wood of nameless souls.
I read the history of our spinning world
at random as I leap from tree to tree,
assembling puzzle of weird narrative
to preserve unspoken names of the dead.
I go beyond all national narratives
where each religion, company, and cult
worships their founder as the divine god
for they are nothing now but mindless ghosts.
Our world is haunted by the ghosts of founders
whose loyal followers fight brutal wars
over whose vicar on Earth should play god
to maintain dynasties of royal blood.
Concept by concept we dismantle structures
of social power that prop weak patriarchs
who manage institutions of control
which support their false right to make the rules.
Who has the right to live in liberty
and who must bow to wise authority
and who can eat the food that others grow
and who reaps wealth that others make all day?
I sit mute in the library all day
and watch rain sparkle in the setting sun
then sleep in cardboard box among old trees
while you read tale I wrote where I am king.
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