How Concepts Perform The Truth
© Surazeus
2018 08 31
The absolute silence of the locked door,
whatever they said were rules of the game,
although leaves know which way the true wind blows,
shrouds our eyes with aching blankness of death.
Endless labyrinth of the family home,
restless shining of the sun on lawn grass,
somewhere over the rainbow no one sees,
leads always to the kitchen where we eat.
We leave our words on roundness of the table
to flap their wings. We listen to the wind
translate itself into thoughts we conceal
behind locked doors of hope. We count rain drops
shining on the glass after thunderstorms
to paint images of faces with eyes
that see beyond time. We are the round table.
The laughter of the river. The clear eyes
of stars that vanished millennia ago.
The sobbing of trees that claw at moist soil
for long-forgotten dreams. The clack of rocks
sliding down the hill where children play chase.
The white-furred kitten flicking its long tail
on the windowsill of unrolling time.
The road winding far away over hills,
however fast the horse may run from fear,
since we know the name our fathers designed,
conceals the hope we thought lead us this far.
Whatever side of the stone castle walls,
to bake bread or keep watch in the high tower,
replacing routine of plowing mud fields,
protects us from hunger or grim despair.
The clock ticking above the mantle piece
to record timeless dream of speaking words
that drip from our tongues in tears of gold honey,
the piano ringing from dance of fingers
searching for perfection in how we act,
though faces powdered pale terrify us
at vision of the dead returning home,
shiver the surprised hour after dawn breaks.
The people of every age before us
cherished delusions of their misconceptions,
since few measure the distance between thoughts
concealed in words we think we utter clearly,
so what delusions do we cherish now,
I wonder as I review my world view,
then deconstruct everything I believe
to perceive how concepts perform the truth.
The reflection of my face in the mirror,
distorted by angle of my perception,
however shadowed beams of sunlight slant
sideways through triangles of our world mesh,
I transform into this persona mask
I wear on my daily routine of craft,
to conceal truth I pretend to present,
so you can see the real me I reveal.
In contours of my face I see the ghost
of every prophet and poet who sang
body electric of our hungry flesh,
for I collect the idols of their spirits
to beam embodied from my glowing head
so we all together sing prophecies
that hide the weird truth no one dares reveal
as I write their names in sand of the sea.
The absolute tone of the open door,
whatever we say are rules of the game,
although hills know which way the river flows,
beams our eyes with harsh awareness of death.
We always meet in endless labyrinth
of our separate universes, converged
by tangled threads of world-connecting wires,
to play role we chose on stage of the world.
The laughter of the sunlight on soft grass.
The faces of children among dark trees.
The voices of the dead on river breeze.
The house on the cliff crumbling to the sea.
We sit together by the sparkling lake
and talk about pleasures that spark our hearts
with joy to be alive by the wild sea,
amused by how concepts perform the truth.
© Surazeus
2018 08 31
The absolute silence of the locked door,
whatever they said were rules of the game,
although leaves know which way the true wind blows,
shrouds our eyes with aching blankness of death.
Endless labyrinth of the family home,
restless shining of the sun on lawn grass,
somewhere over the rainbow no one sees,
leads always to the kitchen where we eat.
We leave our words on roundness of the table
to flap their wings. We listen to the wind
translate itself into thoughts we conceal
behind locked doors of hope. We count rain drops
shining on the glass after thunderstorms
to paint images of faces with eyes
that see beyond time. We are the round table.
The laughter of the river. The clear eyes
of stars that vanished millennia ago.
The sobbing of trees that claw at moist soil
for long-forgotten dreams. The clack of rocks
sliding down the hill where children play chase.
The white-furred kitten flicking its long tail
on the windowsill of unrolling time.
The road winding far away over hills,
however fast the horse may run from fear,
since we know the name our fathers designed,
conceals the hope we thought lead us this far.
Whatever side of the stone castle walls,
to bake bread or keep watch in the high tower,
replacing routine of plowing mud fields,
protects us from hunger or grim despair.
The clock ticking above the mantle piece
to record timeless dream of speaking words
that drip from our tongues in tears of gold honey,
the piano ringing from dance of fingers
searching for perfection in how we act,
though faces powdered pale terrify us
at vision of the dead returning home,
shiver the surprised hour after dawn breaks.
The people of every age before us
cherished delusions of their misconceptions,
since few measure the distance between thoughts
concealed in words we think we utter clearly,
so what delusions do we cherish now,
I wonder as I review my world view,
then deconstruct everything I believe
to perceive how concepts perform the truth.
The reflection of my face in the mirror,
distorted by angle of my perception,
however shadowed beams of sunlight slant
sideways through triangles of our world mesh,
I transform into this persona mask
I wear on my daily routine of craft,
to conceal truth I pretend to present,
so you can see the real me I reveal.
In contours of my face I see the ghost
of every prophet and poet who sang
body electric of our hungry flesh,
for I collect the idols of their spirits
to beam embodied from my glowing head
so we all together sing prophecies
that hide the weird truth no one dares reveal
as I write their names in sand of the sea.
The absolute tone of the open door,
whatever we say are rules of the game,
although hills know which way the river flows,
beams our eyes with harsh awareness of death.
We always meet in endless labyrinth
of our separate universes, converged
by tangled threads of world-connecting wires,
to play role we chose on stage of the world.
The laughter of the sunlight on soft grass.
The faces of children among dark trees.
The voices of the dead on river breeze.
The house on the cliff crumbling to the sea.
We sit together by the sparkling lake
and talk about pleasures that spark our hearts
with joy to be alive by the wild sea,
amused by how concepts perform the truth.
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