On Stage In Empty Theater

On Stage In Empty Theater
© Surazeus
2018 06 07

I am not the cloud that laughs, nor the rain
that cracks windows, although the yellow flower
knows something about me no one else knows,
if each pebble in the stream wants to kiss
my eye that spirals vines of grapes through mist.

I wish I could explain the sense of horror
that used to swell my head with pumpkin juice
of mute anger I hide behind glass mask
so no one will see shame poison my face
since nothingness swallows death I regret.

Who thinks they can contain in packaged words
of calculated process shattered glass
of my heart mirror I kept clean as ice
shimmering every face of the nameless dead
with organized chaos rewound by silence?

So many small events happen each day
between strangers and friends that erase fear
of sudden and painful death before dawn
paints the weird world in happiness released
which no one records so we vanish face.

I go somewhere with intense mission plan
to convert believers with fragile proof
of this perfect self we fail to achieve
since design flaws result in fractured souls
where loving light threads into strange abyss.

I walk alone now in labyrinth of dreams
so far ahead of everyone who thinks
their secret violin reveals the true key
I insert in cracked heart to open door
which loops backward to Eden I escaped.

I think two thousand years will pass again
before dream wizards comprehend the clue
to secret of eternal life I encode
in puzzle piece that replicates her eye
she twists to flash awake my consciousness.

The caged bird who sings elegy for love
teaches me secret code of archetypes
concealed in complex language we design
from spiral roses and fleet eglantines
because they grow from slick muck of my brain.

We have always lived in castle of dreams
to hide from strangers poking at our brains
who live on the moon where gold rivers flow
from the cracked heart of the last singing angel
who silently gives me the empty book.

I am not the river who snarls in rage
because I gave her name to the young girl
who grasps my hand and runs through haunted garden
beyond walls I build from your broken hearts
when returning to Eden no one finds.

I am not the book that preserves your tale
encrypted through formula from your name
sung by birds on phone lines who critique spells
I chant on stage in empty theater
to perform role I wrote before my birth.

I am not the tree growing from my heart,
transforming shameful memories to fruit
no one eats though they fall on sterile ground
where horses race along river of faith
and surround me because I have ripe apples.