Laughter Of Wild Children
© Surazeus
2018 08 14
The laughter of wild children by the stream
vibrates in the window of the dead church
where the skeletons of their parents dance
to deep music of the piano that rings
in diamonds floating over my lost grave
to erase me from the dream of our world.
The white horse that gallops slow in blind rain
reveals strict calculation of the wind
which translates all my thoughts into quick water
so the children who remember their names
draw pictures in the mud where saplings sprout
when painting of my soul falls off the wall.
You stand in the cold ruins of the church
where Ideas of Plato as wooden toys
lie scattered in the debris of the past,
and try to remember the one world view
that once shimmered in the dome of the sky
which fragments from the mirror of your eyes.
Child Roland in the dark tower by the sea
tries to reassemble puzzle of truth
scattered by harsh breath of the mountain god
whose wrath disperses with the thunderclouds,
but all he perceives in the diamond eye
are atoms that flash in spiraling waves.
The clown who stole the name I gave away
mocks the haughty king to his plastic face
so they crucify him on the telephone pole
which causes him to hear the screams of stars
encased in small apple seeds in the mud
while explaining how the weird circle curves.
That is why I now sail my river boat
past the ruins of the church where you wait
for the king who will never come again
though you sit alone for two thousand years
till the wind crushes your skull into dust
that blows in my eyes when I cross the street.
Everything in the universe is curved,
spiraling around core of the White Whole
that emanates from the numinous Eye
who wakes up inside the dream of each brain,
aware of how we know vibrating souls
swirl around the spinning globe of our bones.
I climb the rugged mountain of lost souls
who gather close around me in weird mist
so I can hear the whisper of their thoughts
that blow around forever in sad wind
to hide sincere love behind broken masks
when empire of our faith crumbles to doubt.
I wander so lost in my labyrinth
of historical truth, preserved in books,
wherever I roam in the maze of lies
becomes the sacred home where I abide
to establish great monuments to power
depicted by the warrior on the horse.
The old man sitting in the empty house
watches angels of fire dance in the rain
and mold river mud in children of light
so they fly away on strong flowing wings
to drop apple seeds on all river shores,
then he laughs and talks to the lonely wind.
© Surazeus
2018 08 14
The laughter of wild children by the stream
vibrates in the window of the dead church
where the skeletons of their parents dance
to deep music of the piano that rings
in diamonds floating over my lost grave
to erase me from the dream of our world.
The white horse that gallops slow in blind rain
reveals strict calculation of the wind
which translates all my thoughts into quick water
so the children who remember their names
draw pictures in the mud where saplings sprout
when painting of my soul falls off the wall.
You stand in the cold ruins of the church
where Ideas of Plato as wooden toys
lie scattered in the debris of the past,
and try to remember the one world view
that once shimmered in the dome of the sky
which fragments from the mirror of your eyes.
Child Roland in the dark tower by the sea
tries to reassemble puzzle of truth
scattered by harsh breath of the mountain god
whose wrath disperses with the thunderclouds,
but all he perceives in the diamond eye
are atoms that flash in spiraling waves.
The clown who stole the name I gave away
mocks the haughty king to his plastic face
so they crucify him on the telephone pole
which causes him to hear the screams of stars
encased in small apple seeds in the mud
while explaining how the weird circle curves.
That is why I now sail my river boat
past the ruins of the church where you wait
for the king who will never come again
though you sit alone for two thousand years
till the wind crushes your skull into dust
that blows in my eyes when I cross the street.
Everything in the universe is curved,
spiraling around core of the White Whole
that emanates from the numinous Eye
who wakes up inside the dream of each brain,
aware of how we know vibrating souls
swirl around the spinning globe of our bones.
I climb the rugged mountain of lost souls
who gather close around me in weird mist
so I can hear the whisper of their thoughts
that blow around forever in sad wind
to hide sincere love behind broken masks
when empire of our faith crumbles to doubt.
I wander so lost in my labyrinth
of historical truth, preserved in books,
wherever I roam in the maze of lies
becomes the sacred home where I abide
to establish great monuments to power
depicted by the warrior on the horse.
The old man sitting in the empty house
watches angels of fire dance in the rain
and mold river mud in children of light
so they fly away on strong flowing wings
to drop apple seeds on all river shores,
then he laughs and talks to the lonely wind.
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