Secrets Of Quantum Particles
© Surazeus
2018 08 08
Purple Hydrangeas bloom from the cracked skull
of the emperor who ruled a thousand lands.
People post photos of themselves doing things
in ten thousand cities around the world.
I scroll through the photos they post online,
gazing at sparkle of life in their eyes.
The tiny kitten found under a park bench
grows large and playful as savannah lions.
Thinking about cycles of human history,
I eat fried chimichangas with guacamole.
The Japanese woodcut shows the young painter
frightened when the gaunt ghost of his dead wife
rises howling wildly in silent despair
from image of her soul on frail rice paper.
I want to kiss Goldberry on soft lips
and swim with her in the cool Withywindle.
Walking on the shining beach of the world,
the young girl films birds soaring over waves
while she narrates tales of sex trafficking.
The white man in the theater dressing room
stares at his face painted black in the mirror
then runs to perform in the minstrel show.
The black man on the noisy city street
strums guitar and sings about the crossroads.
Three black girls in white-lace dresses and bows
walk the dusty red road among tall pines
toward red-brick church that explodes in sunlight
so flames of death transform into blind angels.
I know how the caged angel knows my name.
Two boys ride bikes on the small college campus,
talking about light sabers and fast starships,
then write nonsense formulas on chalkboards.
The laughing wizard of our wordless angst
jumps off the bridge into indifferent river,
hoping to transform into the blind angel
who always talks to him through the cracked mirror.
The country boy in cowboy boots and hat
struts across the stage at the county fair
and sings about loving the simple girl
who loves to do her part on the cow farm.
Sad wind wanders listless over bleak heath
where sun-gleaming bushes dance without care.
The sun gleaming purple on far horizon
counts every tree that grows from the rough Earth.
The long-haired woman in fluttering skirt
snaps photo of mute trees on rolling hills.
No one plays music at the glass piano
which refracts their unspoken name at mist.
The man in the iron suit without crown
flies over vast city of shining towers
and sings dire tunes from Requiem of Mozart
about Day of Wrath that will burn the world.
Seven girls walk together by weird river,
giggling as they share secrets of their hearts
like ravens in wild apple tree of truth
that grows from my heart before dawn of time.
The old man, half blind and deaf as a stone,
flips through channels on the large television
while thunderstorm rumbles over the valley.
The painting of his face on castle wall
watches you no matter where you may go
through the endless labyrinth of broken doors
where nameless statues of forgotten heroes
whisper secrets of quantum particles.
© Surazeus
2018 08 08
Purple Hydrangeas bloom from the cracked skull
of the emperor who ruled a thousand lands.
People post photos of themselves doing things
in ten thousand cities around the world.
I scroll through the photos they post online,
gazing at sparkle of life in their eyes.
The tiny kitten found under a park bench
grows large and playful as savannah lions.
Thinking about cycles of human history,
I eat fried chimichangas with guacamole.
The Japanese woodcut shows the young painter
frightened when the gaunt ghost of his dead wife
rises howling wildly in silent despair
from image of her soul on frail rice paper.
I want to kiss Goldberry on soft lips
and swim with her in the cool Withywindle.
Walking on the shining beach of the world,
the young girl films birds soaring over waves
while she narrates tales of sex trafficking.
The white man in the theater dressing room
stares at his face painted black in the mirror
then runs to perform in the minstrel show.
The black man on the noisy city street
strums guitar and sings about the crossroads.
Three black girls in white-lace dresses and bows
walk the dusty red road among tall pines
toward red-brick church that explodes in sunlight
so flames of death transform into blind angels.
I know how the caged angel knows my name.
Two boys ride bikes on the small college campus,
talking about light sabers and fast starships,
then write nonsense formulas on chalkboards.
The laughing wizard of our wordless angst
jumps off the bridge into indifferent river,
hoping to transform into the blind angel
who always talks to him through the cracked mirror.
The country boy in cowboy boots and hat
struts across the stage at the county fair
and sings about loving the simple girl
who loves to do her part on the cow farm.
Sad wind wanders listless over bleak heath
where sun-gleaming bushes dance without care.
The sun gleaming purple on far horizon
counts every tree that grows from the rough Earth.
The long-haired woman in fluttering skirt
snaps photo of mute trees on rolling hills.
No one plays music at the glass piano
which refracts their unspoken name at mist.
The man in the iron suit without crown
flies over vast city of shining towers
and sings dire tunes from Requiem of Mozart
about Day of Wrath that will burn the world.
Seven girls walk together by weird river,
giggling as they share secrets of their hearts
like ravens in wild apple tree of truth
that grows from my heart before dawn of time.
The old man, half blind and deaf as a stone,
flips through channels on the large television
while thunderstorm rumbles over the valley.
The painting of his face on castle wall
watches you no matter where you may go
through the endless labyrinth of broken doors
where nameless statues of forgotten heroes
whisper secrets of quantum particles.
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