They Sing New Illusions
© Surazeus
2018 08 25
The way we thought we were, without the face
that scatters seeds on sidewalks of the heart,
before the time of open doors, stars might
flash quicker than clocks spin, if we know why.
However clear the color of her hair,
faster than birds who play chase on the lawn,
reinvent how the house comforts our horror,
since nothing we dream ever becomes real.
Backward in the hollow church, without
books explaining illusions, we retreat
stumbling over truths that crack under sight,
because I want to devour naked grass.
Extend the courtesy of hope, steal faith
from torn pages of the soiled holy book,
smearing mud full of seeds with fertile blood
of happiness, beyond the ruined walls.
She cradles new-born son of her best friend,
teaches him how to sing laughter of birds
who know his real name, then disappears down
in gushing flow of the absolute stream.
How high above grasping fingers of trees
we leap, because we know stories in books
think about us when we sleep, so we play
hide and seek with the monster in the suit.
Pray among dry stalks of corn, so red rain
cannot find us hidden by shadow, yet
we become stronger holding hands at dawn,
however slow the wind finds where we play.
Fragments of truth we assemble in frame
of broken mirrors, pictures of dead people
haunting silent hallways, although gold rays
of sunlight slant alternate views of love.
Since our world view, we thought everyone shared,
shattered from bombs of industrial desire,
we wander dazed in labyrinth of lost myths,
inventing superheroes from dead gods.
We bury their faces in garden plots,
tend tomato plants in timeless sunlight,
infinite horror of the narrow road,
that winds mute in pines, healing our cracked hearts.
I almost think of something to say, but
we gather in ruins of burned-out church,
sing hymns about our all-father reborn
from ashes of war, and I vanish blind.
We grope through thick forest of tangled truth,
declare the hour of the heart, stop nowhere
on nameless mountain of great revelation,
yet I sit mute while they sing new illusions.
© Surazeus
2018 08 25
The way we thought we were, without the face
that scatters seeds on sidewalks of the heart,
before the time of open doors, stars might
flash quicker than clocks spin, if we know why.
However clear the color of her hair,
faster than birds who play chase on the lawn,
reinvent how the house comforts our horror,
since nothing we dream ever becomes real.
Backward in the hollow church, without
books explaining illusions, we retreat
stumbling over truths that crack under sight,
because I want to devour naked grass.
Extend the courtesy of hope, steal faith
from torn pages of the soiled holy book,
smearing mud full of seeds with fertile blood
of happiness, beyond the ruined walls.
She cradles new-born son of her best friend,
teaches him how to sing laughter of birds
who know his real name, then disappears down
in gushing flow of the absolute stream.
How high above grasping fingers of trees
we leap, because we know stories in books
think about us when we sleep, so we play
hide and seek with the monster in the suit.
Pray among dry stalks of corn, so red rain
cannot find us hidden by shadow, yet
we become stronger holding hands at dawn,
however slow the wind finds where we play.
Fragments of truth we assemble in frame
of broken mirrors, pictures of dead people
haunting silent hallways, although gold rays
of sunlight slant alternate views of love.
Since our world view, we thought everyone shared,
shattered from bombs of industrial desire,
we wander dazed in labyrinth of lost myths,
inventing superheroes from dead gods.
We bury their faces in garden plots,
tend tomato plants in timeless sunlight,
infinite horror of the narrow road,
that winds mute in pines, healing our cracked hearts.
I almost think of something to say, but
we gather in ruins of burned-out church,
sing hymns about our all-father reborn
from ashes of war, and I vanish blind.
We grope through thick forest of tangled truth,
declare the hour of the heart, stop nowhere
on nameless mountain of great revelation,
yet I sit mute while they sing new illusions.
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