Shifting Paradigm Of Real Truth
© Surazeus
2018 08 27
Distracted by algorithms of light
on dunes shifting paradigm of real truth,
laughter of wind flowing over soft ridge
of ponderous hope, wherever waves whistle,
we come together on lush plain of flowers
to scatter apple seeds on asphalt roads.
Refracted in shattered mirror of faith
uncontested by angels, quick as water
flashing over rocks on lone mountain ridge,
since hour of compassion emanates blank,
we follow wings of angels through weird maze
of locked doors, numberless as falling leaves.
Fractured by calculation of fake numbers
rolling across the temple floor, except
when Death grasps our beating hearts at wild dawn,
although we know the name of the last king,
we submerge our faces in waterfalls
that mold forgotten souls ten thousand years.
Scattered across the waste land without plans
to build cathederals from skulls of dead kings,
whenever people scream from wordless rage
at violent attack, trees burning slowly,
we sit together on the ocean shore
and count wind that steals words we cannot speak.
Blasted by bombs of imperial ambition
after endless fall of blind Lucifer,
anguish contained within helmets of iron
painted pretty colors, behind locked doors,
we talk about the weather and play chess
to ignore planes roaring over lush gardens.
Concealed by glass mask of the last messiah
stuck in traffic, signs repainted to hide
secret code that opens gold gates of heaven,
before salvation was offered for sale,
we argue about what is real or not
to deconstruct white privilege of power.
Hunted through labyrinth of national pride,
son of God tagged illegal immigrant
escaping through waste land of loyal snakes
to guide our quest for the true Holy Grail,
we picnic in the graveyard of messiahs
whose stories we write in hot wind-blown sand.
Deceived by promises of resurrection
to live forever in new paradise,
if we pledge to worship him as our God,
though he bleeds to death on telephone pole,
we plant apple seeds in soil of our hearts
and water them with tears of wordless horror.
© Surazeus
2018 08 27
Distracted by algorithms of light
on dunes shifting paradigm of real truth,
laughter of wind flowing over soft ridge
of ponderous hope, wherever waves whistle,
we come together on lush plain of flowers
to scatter apple seeds on asphalt roads.
Refracted in shattered mirror of faith
uncontested by angels, quick as water
flashing over rocks on lone mountain ridge,
since hour of compassion emanates blank,
we follow wings of angels through weird maze
of locked doors, numberless as falling leaves.
Fractured by calculation of fake numbers
rolling across the temple floor, except
when Death grasps our beating hearts at wild dawn,
although we know the name of the last king,
we submerge our faces in waterfalls
that mold forgotten souls ten thousand years.
Scattered across the waste land without plans
to build cathederals from skulls of dead kings,
whenever people scream from wordless rage
at violent attack, trees burning slowly,
we sit together on the ocean shore
and count wind that steals words we cannot speak.
Blasted by bombs of imperial ambition
after endless fall of blind Lucifer,
anguish contained within helmets of iron
painted pretty colors, behind locked doors,
we talk about the weather and play chess
to ignore planes roaring over lush gardens.
Concealed by glass mask of the last messiah
stuck in traffic, signs repainted to hide
secret code that opens gold gates of heaven,
before salvation was offered for sale,
we argue about what is real or not
to deconstruct white privilege of power.
Hunted through labyrinth of national pride,
son of God tagged illegal immigrant
escaping through waste land of loyal snakes
to guide our quest for the true Holy Grail,
we picnic in the graveyard of messiahs
whose stories we write in hot wind-blown sand.
Deceived by promises of resurrection
to live forever in new paradise,
if we pledge to worship him as our God,
though he bleeds to death on telephone pole,
we plant apple seeds in soil of our hearts
and water them with tears of wordless horror.
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