Ghost Of My Brain
© Surazeus
2018 07 09
My brain invents the nameless ghost who haunts me,
conflating all the people I have known
into one faceless specter of desire.
When I sit in the warm sun after lunch,
and gaze at white clouds shining in blue sky,
I drift away on waves of meditation
to contemplate strange mysteries of life,
and while I float half-anchored to my brain
I feel the presence of the ghost appear.
I feel the emanation of their soul,
sensing thoughts their featureless face projects,
which beams impressions of visual concepts
bellowed in silent shout of wordless fears,
so I start awake from sun-induced dream
and the ghost, who embodies muted thoughts,
vanishes to nothing in bright sunlight.
I stretch, and walk along the red-brick wall
of institutional authority to enter door
of shining glass that reflects my own ghost
who knows so many things I cannot know,
then climb stairs of ambition to my office
to ponder what I will say in my lecture
discussing archetypes of characters
and how story texts conjure them to life.
By reading text we resurrect in dream
idols of people who do not exist
in bodies of flesh and blood ruled by brains
so they play role in the plot of the tale
before projecting cameras of our eyes.
I open the book of pages blank white,
and inscribe letters to code magic spells
that generate visions in dreaming eyes.
I am the weird ghost my own brain creates,
congealing flashes of life memories,
distorted by perception of lost time,
to activate puppet of my true self
who dances to strings of fate I control.
Now that the old world view we all once shared
shatters from contradictions of real truth,
we build new world view based on measurements
of active forces instruments perceive
to describe all things as structures of atoms
that construct and destruct in flow of growth
based on process of chemical exchange.
I name the new civilization, that rises
from ruins of cathedrals and dead gods,
Zethania for the mother of my soul
who creates all the spirits of my brain.
Rising from lake of dreams at dawn of time,
Zethania pulls my body from her womb,
then holds me high toward beaming eye of light
so I become the love she explicates.
My mother taught me how to express words
that signify the objects, qualities,
and actions we perceive with open eyes
so we can exchange the dreams of our brains.
The spirit of the mother of my mother
for ten thousand generations reborn
becomes the ghost of my ancestral selves
who haunt me between my waking and dreaming.
Having lost my way in labyrinth of tales,
I return to shore of the flowing stream
where she first sang words to remember why
we explore the world to recite new tales.
© Surazeus
2018 07 09
My brain invents the nameless ghost who haunts me,
conflating all the people I have known
into one faceless specter of desire.
When I sit in the warm sun after lunch,
and gaze at white clouds shining in blue sky,
I drift away on waves of meditation
to contemplate strange mysteries of life,
and while I float half-anchored to my brain
I feel the presence of the ghost appear.
I feel the emanation of their soul,
sensing thoughts their featureless face projects,
which beams impressions of visual concepts
bellowed in silent shout of wordless fears,
so I start awake from sun-induced dream
and the ghost, who embodies muted thoughts,
vanishes to nothing in bright sunlight.
I stretch, and walk along the red-brick wall
of institutional authority to enter door
of shining glass that reflects my own ghost
who knows so many things I cannot know,
then climb stairs of ambition to my office
to ponder what I will say in my lecture
discussing archetypes of characters
and how story texts conjure them to life.
By reading text we resurrect in dream
idols of people who do not exist
in bodies of flesh and blood ruled by brains
so they play role in the plot of the tale
before projecting cameras of our eyes.
I open the book of pages blank white,
and inscribe letters to code magic spells
that generate visions in dreaming eyes.
I am the weird ghost my own brain creates,
congealing flashes of life memories,
distorted by perception of lost time,
to activate puppet of my true self
who dances to strings of fate I control.
Now that the old world view we all once shared
shatters from contradictions of real truth,
we build new world view based on measurements
of active forces instruments perceive
to describe all things as structures of atoms
that construct and destruct in flow of growth
based on process of chemical exchange.
I name the new civilization, that rises
from ruins of cathedrals and dead gods,
Zethania for the mother of my soul
who creates all the spirits of my brain.
Rising from lake of dreams at dawn of time,
Zethania pulls my body from her womb,
then holds me high toward beaming eye of light
so I become the love she explicates.
My mother taught me how to express words
that signify the objects, qualities,
and actions we perceive with open eyes
so we can exchange the dreams of our brains.
The spirit of the mother of my mother
for ten thousand generations reborn
becomes the ghost of my ancestral selves
who haunt me between my waking and dreaming.
Having lost my way in labyrinth of tales,
I return to shore of the flowing stream
where she first sang words to remember why
we explore the world to recite new tales.
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