Become Every Soul Who Ever Lives
© Surazeus
2018 07 14
The purple flame of seven billion souls
flares wild in rain clouds that drench Earth in hope
to overcome sorrow of aching loss
when naked flowers sprout from our rotting hearts.
Though nobody listens to the old man
who sings beside the post office in rain,
he sings as if even the angels hear
hallucinations that blind secret eyes.
The shadow of my soul I see in glass
reflects nameless despair of mute sunlight
that beams indifferent desire in my heart
so I forget mission I assigned myself.
The dark shadow of horror follows me
everywhere I go on my busy day
when I perform mundane errands of life
to buy groceries and fill my car with gas.
Everybody sings sorrows of their hearts
so all together we sing in vast choir
to express horror of death in sweet tunes
that generate hope for another day.
But our world spins on into the vast void
of empty nothingness through hungry time
that swallows our bodies into bland dirt
though we struggle for birth from the world egg.
Still millions compete to become the One Voice
who speaks truth better than everyone else
though our voices swirl together in waves
of emotional memories blanked by death.
Death mutes us all so why should we sing now,
instead sitting in silent nonchalance
at aching hope to be worshipped as god
who embodies the spirit of our times?
The shining lake reflects reality
except the face I wear on television
while I climb the steep slope of Mount Parnassus
to discuss truth with the Horror of Death.
Looking down from height of insanity,
I see thousands of poets, who wear masks
of superheroes, clutching at their weeds
that sprout from the swamp of arrogant pride.
They compete to be worshipped as the best
since Sylvia Plath and Robert Lowell sang
anguish of the broken heart in cracked lines
that glare on shattered mirror of the Self.
Assembled in groups of the bestest friends,
they compete in the tag-team wrestling match
to out-praise each other in magazines
when they shout lyrics in bookstores and bars.
Orpheus twangs the harp of resurrection,
enchanting stones to dance in lightning rain,
till fans tear him apart with mute desire
to eat flesh and blood in communion rite.
The hour they crown me Poet Laureate
they will crucify me on the phone pole
and weave psychic lines in threads through my brain
so all their dreams flash words in my eyes.
Once they connect me to the world wide web
of dreaming brains, I will forget myself
and become every soul who ever lives
to sing the sorrows they privately share.
Where can I hide from all their staring eyes
that devour my secret memories of love
to universalize my own experience
in mythic legend of the boy who lives?
© Surazeus
2018 07 14
The purple flame of seven billion souls
flares wild in rain clouds that drench Earth in hope
to overcome sorrow of aching loss
when naked flowers sprout from our rotting hearts.
Though nobody listens to the old man
who sings beside the post office in rain,
he sings as if even the angels hear
hallucinations that blind secret eyes.
The shadow of my soul I see in glass
reflects nameless despair of mute sunlight
that beams indifferent desire in my heart
so I forget mission I assigned myself.
The dark shadow of horror follows me
everywhere I go on my busy day
when I perform mundane errands of life
to buy groceries and fill my car with gas.
Everybody sings sorrows of their hearts
so all together we sing in vast choir
to express horror of death in sweet tunes
that generate hope for another day.
But our world spins on into the vast void
of empty nothingness through hungry time
that swallows our bodies into bland dirt
though we struggle for birth from the world egg.
Still millions compete to become the One Voice
who speaks truth better than everyone else
though our voices swirl together in waves
of emotional memories blanked by death.
Death mutes us all so why should we sing now,
instead sitting in silent nonchalance
at aching hope to be worshipped as god
who embodies the spirit of our times?
The shining lake reflects reality
except the face I wear on television
while I climb the steep slope of Mount Parnassus
to discuss truth with the Horror of Death.
Looking down from height of insanity,
I see thousands of poets, who wear masks
of superheroes, clutching at their weeds
that sprout from the swamp of arrogant pride.
They compete to be worshipped as the best
since Sylvia Plath and Robert Lowell sang
anguish of the broken heart in cracked lines
that glare on shattered mirror of the Self.
Assembled in groups of the bestest friends,
they compete in the tag-team wrestling match
to out-praise each other in magazines
when they shout lyrics in bookstores and bars.
Orpheus twangs the harp of resurrection,
enchanting stones to dance in lightning rain,
till fans tear him apart with mute desire
to eat flesh and blood in communion rite.
The hour they crown me Poet Laureate
they will crucify me on the phone pole
and weave psychic lines in threads through my brain
so all their dreams flash words in my eyes.
Once they connect me to the world wide web
of dreaming brains, I will forget myself
and become every soul who ever lives
to sing the sorrows they privately share.
Where can I hide from all their staring eyes
that devour my secret memories of love
to universalize my own experience
in mythic legend of the boy who lives?
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