Old Man Who Once Ruled Earth
© Surazeus
2018 08 14
The old man who once ruled the entire world
sits in the crumbling ruins of the church,
listening to the wind sing hymns to his power
while he makes models of people from clay
and tries to breathe spirit of life in them,
and though they move a bit with awkward steps
they stiffen and crumble to dust in wind,
so he stares at sunlight through broken windows.
Moving slowly through the shadows of night,
the old man who once ruled our spinning globe,
creeps through shining windows of every home
and leaves the ancient book of leather skin
on the kitchen table by jars of salt
after writing the story of his life
with the bright silvery blood of unicorns
on fragile pages composed of oak leaves.
When people wake at dawn from haunting dreams,
where they are always running through the woods
to find the rainbow that makes their hearts ache
but then stop and stare in the mirror eyes
of the bottomless lake where hunger lurks,
they rub their eyes and walk into the kitchen
and scream in horror at sight of the book
that throbs like an animal with no face.
The book of ancient legends sprouts black wings,
thick and leathery like taut wings of bats,
and flies away to escape human fear
but whacks their eyeless heads against the glass
of the window till the people grab brooms
and beat the book of legends on the back
so it flops around and crawls out the door,
then burrows into the dirt of the world.
The oldest man in the world with three eyes,
still lurking near the houses of the people,
watches Book escape into the dark world
while hiding behind the tree by the road,
and the people look up at the brief glimpse
of some nameless horror lurking in sunlight
but they see only weird unmoving shadow
of the ancient tree staring in their heart.
The old man who once ruled our planet Earth
then mounts up onto the pale horse of Death
and rides slowly down the wide asphalt streets
of the vast city that covers the world
between the beams of light on wings of gloom,
and paints the words of ancient tales with blood
of children murdered in ten thousand wars
to cover the streets where people drive cars.
Writing the names of people killed in wars
with vile blood that oozes from their squashed brains
on asphalt streets where buses and trucks go
about the daily business of food production,
the oldest man in the world with ten mouths
howls songs of angst on wild radio waves
that crackles in strange static of despair
behind cheerful voices of the disc jockeys.
Shuffling down the busy streets of the city
in tattered overcoat and worn-out boots,
the old man who once ruled every world empire
wanders between the shadows of the people
in elegant dresses and pin-stripe suits,
and snatches hopes and dreams from their frail skulls
then stuffs them in his mouth like cotton candy
and chews till sorrow dribbles from his mouth.
Shivering in harsh sunlight of chilly wind,
the old man who was god in human flesh,
the mightiest god who once thundered from clouds
of terrible storms, hurtling lightning bolts
at disobedient farmers in wheat fields,
strums broken guitar and sings ancient hymns
glorious angels once choired in adoration
while passing people drop coins in his hat.
No one ever sees the numinous face
of the god of wrath inside the old man
except the young girl who stands by the tree
and watches him morph through ten thousand shapes
in terrible aspects of desperate horror,
then gives him the apple of arcane wisdom
she found floating by the library door,
so he grins and eats it with dragon teeth.
The oldest woman in the world with eyes
deep as the spiraling seas of pure light,
disguised as the little girl with long curls,
smiles when seeds of the apple sprout and grow
ten thousand towering trees from his huge skull
that bulges into ancient range of mountains
where herds of horses gallop with the wind,
then she whispers his name into rain storms.
The old man who once ruled the entire world,
apple trees sprouting from his giant brain,
walks invisible with the busy crowd
which flows over the bridge of smiling masks,
reciting the alphabet of lost truth
to record secret name of every soul
who ever lived in spinning of our world
woven into fierce agony of life.
Arriving at last in the Oval Office,
the old man who once ruled the spinning Earth
sits lotus on the television tube,
which flashes with the memories of mankind,
and flies crystal starship around the world,
recording dreams that flash in every brain,
so we gather on One-Eyed Pyramid
to hear Ishtar sing Spell of the White Whole.
© Surazeus
2018 08 14
The old man who once ruled the entire world
sits in the crumbling ruins of the church,
listening to the wind sing hymns to his power
while he makes models of people from clay
and tries to breathe spirit of life in them,
and though they move a bit with awkward steps
they stiffen and crumble to dust in wind,
so he stares at sunlight through broken windows.
Moving slowly through the shadows of night,
the old man who once ruled our spinning globe,
creeps through shining windows of every home
and leaves the ancient book of leather skin
on the kitchen table by jars of salt
after writing the story of his life
with the bright silvery blood of unicorns
on fragile pages composed of oak leaves.
When people wake at dawn from haunting dreams,
where they are always running through the woods
to find the rainbow that makes their hearts ache
but then stop and stare in the mirror eyes
of the bottomless lake where hunger lurks,
they rub their eyes and walk into the kitchen
and scream in horror at sight of the book
that throbs like an animal with no face.
The book of ancient legends sprouts black wings,
thick and leathery like taut wings of bats,
and flies away to escape human fear
but whacks their eyeless heads against the glass
of the window till the people grab brooms
and beat the book of legends on the back
so it flops around and crawls out the door,
then burrows into the dirt of the world.
The oldest man in the world with three eyes,
still lurking near the houses of the people,
watches Book escape into the dark world
while hiding behind the tree by the road,
and the people look up at the brief glimpse
of some nameless horror lurking in sunlight
but they see only weird unmoving shadow
of the ancient tree staring in their heart.
The old man who once ruled our planet Earth
then mounts up onto the pale horse of Death
and rides slowly down the wide asphalt streets
of the vast city that covers the world
between the beams of light on wings of gloom,
and paints the words of ancient tales with blood
of children murdered in ten thousand wars
to cover the streets where people drive cars.
Writing the names of people killed in wars
with vile blood that oozes from their squashed brains
on asphalt streets where buses and trucks go
about the daily business of food production,
the oldest man in the world with ten mouths
howls songs of angst on wild radio waves
that crackles in strange static of despair
behind cheerful voices of the disc jockeys.
Shuffling down the busy streets of the city
in tattered overcoat and worn-out boots,
the old man who once ruled every world empire
wanders between the shadows of the people
in elegant dresses and pin-stripe suits,
and snatches hopes and dreams from their frail skulls
then stuffs them in his mouth like cotton candy
and chews till sorrow dribbles from his mouth.
Shivering in harsh sunlight of chilly wind,
the old man who was god in human flesh,
the mightiest god who once thundered from clouds
of terrible storms, hurtling lightning bolts
at disobedient farmers in wheat fields,
strums broken guitar and sings ancient hymns
glorious angels once choired in adoration
while passing people drop coins in his hat.
No one ever sees the numinous face
of the god of wrath inside the old man
except the young girl who stands by the tree
and watches him morph through ten thousand shapes
in terrible aspects of desperate horror,
then gives him the apple of arcane wisdom
she found floating by the library door,
so he grins and eats it with dragon teeth.
The oldest woman in the world with eyes
deep as the spiraling seas of pure light,
disguised as the little girl with long curls,
smiles when seeds of the apple sprout and grow
ten thousand towering trees from his huge skull
that bulges into ancient range of mountains
where herds of horses gallop with the wind,
then she whispers his name into rain storms.
The old man who once ruled the entire world,
apple trees sprouting from his giant brain,
walks invisible with the busy crowd
which flows over the bridge of smiling masks,
reciting the alphabet of lost truth
to record secret name of every soul
who ever lived in spinning of our world
woven into fierce agony of life.
Arriving at last in the Oval Office,
the old man who once ruled the spinning Earth
sits lotus on the television tube,
which flashes with the memories of mankind,
and flies crystal starship around the world,
recording dreams that flash in every brain,
so we gather on One-Eyed Pyramid
to hear Ishtar sing Spell of the White Whole.
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