Eternal Songs Of Human Hope

Eternal Songs Of Human Hope
© Surazeus
2018 09 16

In the morning while I still lie in bed
I like to open the Venetian blinds
so dawn light may gleam into my bedroom
and weave eternity in my brain cells.

I see fairies hop outside on the lawn
in playful rendition of ballet shows,
disguised as birds that flap their fragile wings,
for birds are descended from dinosaurs.

Three raindrops on window glass sparkle blue,
retaining in their quivering eyes fierce blast
of the hurricane that swirls from the sea
and floods fragile cities on the east coast.

The car mechanic, whose eyes have seen gears
of the hurricane grind infinite rage,
paddles metal canoe down flooded highway
with the tiny kitten perched on his shoulder.

I stand on dawn-red lawn behind my house
and wait for last breeze of the hurricane
to rustle leaves on the trees who explain
that our souls will vanish, erased by death.

Why do people gather each Sunday morning
in white-painted buildings to sit in rows
and sing with false hope for eternal life
when this moment now is Heaven on Earth?

Whether struggling to survive brutal blast
of indifferent hurricanes from the sea,
or singing with family in grove of trees,
we are alive with emptiness of love.

I sit alone in my yard Sunday mornings
to worship Apollo, God of Sunlight,
and write eternal songs of human hope
in dry dirt so the wind can sing our thoughts.