Justify My Existence
© Surazeus
2018 06 09
The sultry angle of sunlight on walls
photographed by the girl who never speaks
reveals potent desire to achieve fame
playing goddess of compassion who explains
why children see through our adulting masks
since we must do our duty for the bank.
Gliding like the panther in her zoo cage,
the young photographer from Lebanon
studies mosaic pictures on the walls
of houses in Pompeii buried under ash
two thousand years since the volcano spewed
fire and brimstone from wrath of the Blind God.
The black cat leaps on her shoulder and purrs
so she turns and photographs the blank face
of Sybil hanging in her golden cage
before she prophesies how the republic
ruled by the clown transforms into the empire
ruled by the blind man in the Cave of Shadows.
Fragments of archetypes and plots from myths
crumble from mosaic pictures on walls
of ancient cathedrals and palaces,
where priests and kings once ruled nations of slaves,
and land on the Round Table of King Arthur
who attempts to assemble new World View.
The rule abiding rebel falls in love
with the manic pixie dream girl who leads
the soulful brooding boy from the stale church
of his sheltered emotionless existence
and opens his heart to wondrous adventure
past threshold guardians to her paradise.
Lifting the camera before her black eyes,
the sly photographer in yellow dress
captures sharp images of the sleek horse
who races fast around the muddy track
through the swirling mist of ten thousand years
to win the cup from which we drink our wine.
How deep in my heart the light of the moon
stabs my spirit with agony of truth
to dig deep well of honesty so rain
fills pool of my heart with generous love
though I sit alone in our Cave of Shadows
painting visions I see beam from your eyes.
Each time I sleep beside you, in the gloom
of wordless hope, I return through the gate
of paradise to Somewhere City streets
still searching for you through every locked door
so I sit by window, silver with rain,
to watch trees in wind explain your real name.
Sudden flash of sunlight on window glass
blinds my eyes but opens my consciousness
to see scenario where we play our roles
according to the script some dead man wrote
we burn in the fireplace and write our own
to walk along the river of Wild Town.
What color for my skin and eyes and hair
will they paint on the blankness of my self
because I cannot see mask of my face
so all my feelings are universally human
but by their words and actions impose on me
stereotype role they prefer that I would play?
While walking Somewhere City before noon
I see panther woman photographer
emerge from beam of sunlight from the sky
and photograph the mystery of my soul
before I have the chance to hide my face
behind persona mask of role I play.
She follows me down to the Cave of Shadows
and photographs me painting images
of visions only I can see on walls
of restaurants and private companies
in mural series that depict social heroes
who invented stereotype roles they play.
Her photographs appear in magazines
with stories that depict celebrities
as underground heroes whose surreal art
reflects manic obsessions of our culture
through famous movie stars as characters
who wear the mask of god as our messiah.
Since we elected Richard Cory king
to run empire of television stars
in United Corporations of Moneta,
who leads John Keats to where Saturnus sleeps,
wise Helius returns from the Cave of Shadows
to grasp the wheel and guide our Ship of State.
The Titanic ship of America
chugs full steam ahead at iceberg of greed
so I will play my violin on stage
as our glorious empire sinks into debt
while panther girl photographs every person
who drowns in the deep abyss of the future.
Becoming sunlight that slants through weird trees,
the sultry photographer in red dress
purrs, "I will not justify my existence,"
then photographs the mystery of our world
so we feel spirit we can never see
with our eyes, the egg of first consciousness.
© Surazeus
2018 06 09
The sultry angle of sunlight on walls
photographed by the girl who never speaks
reveals potent desire to achieve fame
playing goddess of compassion who explains
why children see through our adulting masks
since we must do our duty for the bank.
Gliding like the panther in her zoo cage,
the young photographer from Lebanon
studies mosaic pictures on the walls
of houses in Pompeii buried under ash
two thousand years since the volcano spewed
fire and brimstone from wrath of the Blind God.
The black cat leaps on her shoulder and purrs
so she turns and photographs the blank face
of Sybil hanging in her golden cage
before she prophesies how the republic
ruled by the clown transforms into the empire
ruled by the blind man in the Cave of Shadows.
Fragments of archetypes and plots from myths
crumble from mosaic pictures on walls
of ancient cathedrals and palaces,
where priests and kings once ruled nations of slaves,
and land on the Round Table of King Arthur
who attempts to assemble new World View.
The rule abiding rebel falls in love
with the manic pixie dream girl who leads
the soulful brooding boy from the stale church
of his sheltered emotionless existence
and opens his heart to wondrous adventure
past threshold guardians to her paradise.
Lifting the camera before her black eyes,
the sly photographer in yellow dress
captures sharp images of the sleek horse
who races fast around the muddy track
through the swirling mist of ten thousand years
to win the cup from which we drink our wine.
How deep in my heart the light of the moon
stabs my spirit with agony of truth
to dig deep well of honesty so rain
fills pool of my heart with generous love
though I sit alone in our Cave of Shadows
painting visions I see beam from your eyes.
Each time I sleep beside you, in the gloom
of wordless hope, I return through the gate
of paradise to Somewhere City streets
still searching for you through every locked door
so I sit by window, silver with rain,
to watch trees in wind explain your real name.
Sudden flash of sunlight on window glass
blinds my eyes but opens my consciousness
to see scenario where we play our roles
according to the script some dead man wrote
we burn in the fireplace and write our own
to walk along the river of Wild Town.
What color for my skin and eyes and hair
will they paint on the blankness of my self
because I cannot see mask of my face
so all my feelings are universally human
but by their words and actions impose on me
stereotype role they prefer that I would play?
While walking Somewhere City before noon
I see panther woman photographer
emerge from beam of sunlight from the sky
and photograph the mystery of my soul
before I have the chance to hide my face
behind persona mask of role I play.
She follows me down to the Cave of Shadows
and photographs me painting images
of visions only I can see on walls
of restaurants and private companies
in mural series that depict social heroes
who invented stereotype roles they play.
Her photographs appear in magazines
with stories that depict celebrities
as underground heroes whose surreal art
reflects manic obsessions of our culture
through famous movie stars as characters
who wear the mask of god as our messiah.
Since we elected Richard Cory king
to run empire of television stars
in United Corporations of Moneta,
who leads John Keats to where Saturnus sleeps,
wise Helius returns from the Cave of Shadows
to grasp the wheel and guide our Ship of State.
The Titanic ship of America
chugs full steam ahead at iceberg of greed
so I will play my violin on stage
as our glorious empire sinks into debt
while panther girl photographs every person
who drowns in the deep abyss of the future.
Becoming sunlight that slants through weird trees,
the sultry photographer in red dress
purrs, "I will not justify my existence,"
then photographs the mystery of our world
so we feel spirit we can never see
with our eyes, the egg of first consciousness.
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