Title Of My Dreaming Heart
© Surazeus
2018 07 13
All the light we cannot see permeates
pulsing cells that sing vibrant molecules
weaving words we forget to say in songs
that only winds express on water waves.
The peculiar sadness of lemon cake
taints every thought that oozes from my eye
to fertilize deep roots of nameless trees
so here I sit at table of silent truth.
Why do androids dream of electric sheep
who wait for Virgil to return from Hell
with basket of jewels for eyes of statues
that spring alive in Museum of Masks?
I will visit you in the House of Leaves
to write the stories of all nameless souls
killed by cruel men in national genocides
that no one makes into films about war.
The broken house at the end of the world
where children play chase in graveyard of skulls
contains photos of people never born
because their parents died when they were young.
The strange teleportation accident
on the animal farm transformed the king
of bankers into the three little pigs
who laugh at the wolf of our brave new world.
When God speaks through cats about formulas
that describe quantum physics of our hearts
for extracting sun-beams from juicy fruit,
teach the caged bird how to sing epic hymns.
The unbearable lightness of being whole
after one hundred years of solitude
reveals the lonely hunter of my heart
who explores Earth where angels fear to tread.
Their eyes were watching God illuminate
the shadow of the wind in midnight garden
east of Eden where the sun also rises
on the quick and the dead in heart of darkness.
The act of racing in the wind to chase
the wind in the willows as I lay dying
leads me to the country where old men
howl in the winter of our discontent.
The left hand of darkness sparkling my brain
flies over the nest of the cuckoo bird
who reveals the name of the rose which shows
last night I sang to the monster of truth.
The old man sails the sea of sounding fury
where northern lights erase your name at last
in search of lost time while the whole Earth hums
on our long daily journey into night.
The call of the wild on the other side
of silence outside walls of paradise
leads me to walk the winding trail of hope
through woods where I hear the owl call my name.
A great and terrible beauty of truth
sings in the mystery of the lovely bones
that every person dies alone, from here
to eternity this side of paradise.
Dark as the grave wherein my friend is laid
I join the moveable feast on the ship
of fools for whom the bell tolls at midnight
across the wide Sargasso Sea of Dreams.
Before I join the Joy Luck Club for lunch
after the long dark tea-time of the soul
I will compose new divine comedy
about the lost year of magical thinking.
© Surazeus
2018 07 13
All the light we cannot see permeates
pulsing cells that sing vibrant molecules
weaving words we forget to say in songs
that only winds express on water waves.
The peculiar sadness of lemon cake
taints every thought that oozes from my eye
to fertilize deep roots of nameless trees
so here I sit at table of silent truth.
Why do androids dream of electric sheep
who wait for Virgil to return from Hell
with basket of jewels for eyes of statues
that spring alive in Museum of Masks?
I will visit you in the House of Leaves
to write the stories of all nameless souls
killed by cruel men in national genocides
that no one makes into films about war.
The broken house at the end of the world
where children play chase in graveyard of skulls
contains photos of people never born
because their parents died when they were young.
The strange teleportation accident
on the animal farm transformed the king
of bankers into the three little pigs
who laugh at the wolf of our brave new world.
When God speaks through cats about formulas
that describe quantum physics of our hearts
for extracting sun-beams from juicy fruit,
teach the caged bird how to sing epic hymns.
The unbearable lightness of being whole
after one hundred years of solitude
reveals the lonely hunter of my heart
who explores Earth where angels fear to tread.
Their eyes were watching God illuminate
the shadow of the wind in midnight garden
east of Eden where the sun also rises
on the quick and the dead in heart of darkness.
The act of racing in the wind to chase
the wind in the willows as I lay dying
leads me to the country where old men
howl in the winter of our discontent.
The left hand of darkness sparkling my brain
flies over the nest of the cuckoo bird
who reveals the name of the rose which shows
last night I sang to the monster of truth.
The old man sails the sea of sounding fury
where northern lights erase your name at last
in search of lost time while the whole Earth hums
on our long daily journey into night.
The call of the wild on the other side
of silence outside walls of paradise
leads me to walk the winding trail of hope
through woods where I hear the owl call my name.
A great and terrible beauty of truth
sings in the mystery of the lovely bones
that every person dies alone, from here
to eternity this side of paradise.
Dark as the grave wherein my friend is laid
I join the moveable feast on the ship
of fools for whom the bell tolls at midnight
across the wide Sargasso Sea of Dreams.
Before I join the Joy Luck Club for lunch
after the long dark tea-time of the soul
I will compose new divine comedy
about the lost year of magical thinking.
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