Loneliness Of Ourselves
© Surazeus
2018 09 02
We are lost in the loneliness of ourselves,
he laughs softly, and drinks blackberry wine
while demonic atoms swirl in the void.
Rain writes the stories of lost lonely souls
on the window of the house in the hills
where ghosts play the roles of the nameless dead
on seven billion television screens.
Shall we give them names, the ghosts of the people
we knew one time in some place far away
whose faces flicker on the evening sky?
I am not as morbid as Septimus,
most morbid of the Tennysons he claimed
on rising from the floor dressed in long robe
made from the fur of lonely forest wolves.
Ghosts are emptiness of people we loved
who come to us when we are half asleep
but must vanish when we open our eyes.
Though people who love us can sympathize
when we suffer pains our body is heir to,
we must transform alone from feverish flames
through terror at finality of death.
Ghosts are the absense of people we long for
who evade satisfaction of our hope
though we talk to each other every day.
When I walk into the forest at night,
where no artificial lights of tools glow,
I find Death dressed in her long black lace dress
dancing in flash of moonlight in the river.
Death gazes at me with eyes black as void,
so I slide my fingers through her long hair
black as shadows on walls of our dream cave.
My mothers and my fathers live inside
tangled neurons of my conceptual brain
to wind taut coils of my genetic flight
through endless maze of archetypal masks.
How pungent on the sapience of my tongue
sparkles sensual flush of blackberry wine,
blood I drink in remembrance of our Earth.
I float on endless sorrow of the night
when all the conscious creatures of the world
process their darkest fears in harmless dreams
to program their next move in game of life.
Each day I wake in the indifferent sunlight
and wonder if I will have anything
true to sing about the state of the world.
We are lost in illusions of our hopes
that we project on the real world we see
which guides us through the endless maze of eyes
since we are all god who watches itself.
Though we all walk together on the bridge
of endless possibilities through hunger,
we stare in the same mirror of one self.
Though I see myself on the television
each separate self I am has other names
so each one makes their own mistakes from pride
but seeks to make justice no one else serves.
We sit alone in silent loneliness
and talk to each other on social media
to embody the absence of our ghosts.
We change the masks we wear ten thousand times
to become each other for hour of play,
exploring roles strange to our normal minds
so we befriend the strangers in ourselves.
Now that I live your life through your weird poems
you become another ghost haunting me
for all the strangers I know float around me.
After playing other people for a while
we become the secret selves we forgot
to savor the loneliness of ourselves
when we sing together in ring of stars.
© Surazeus
2018 09 02
We are lost in the loneliness of ourselves,
he laughs softly, and drinks blackberry wine
while demonic atoms swirl in the void.
Rain writes the stories of lost lonely souls
on the window of the house in the hills
where ghosts play the roles of the nameless dead
on seven billion television screens.
Shall we give them names, the ghosts of the people
we knew one time in some place far away
whose faces flicker on the evening sky?
I am not as morbid as Septimus,
most morbid of the Tennysons he claimed
on rising from the floor dressed in long robe
made from the fur of lonely forest wolves.
Ghosts are emptiness of people we loved
who come to us when we are half asleep
but must vanish when we open our eyes.
Though people who love us can sympathize
when we suffer pains our body is heir to,
we must transform alone from feverish flames
through terror at finality of death.
Ghosts are the absense of people we long for
who evade satisfaction of our hope
though we talk to each other every day.
When I walk into the forest at night,
where no artificial lights of tools glow,
I find Death dressed in her long black lace dress
dancing in flash of moonlight in the river.
Death gazes at me with eyes black as void,
so I slide my fingers through her long hair
black as shadows on walls of our dream cave.
My mothers and my fathers live inside
tangled neurons of my conceptual brain
to wind taut coils of my genetic flight
through endless maze of archetypal masks.
How pungent on the sapience of my tongue
sparkles sensual flush of blackberry wine,
blood I drink in remembrance of our Earth.
I float on endless sorrow of the night
when all the conscious creatures of the world
process their darkest fears in harmless dreams
to program their next move in game of life.
Each day I wake in the indifferent sunlight
and wonder if I will have anything
true to sing about the state of the world.
We are lost in illusions of our hopes
that we project on the real world we see
which guides us through the endless maze of eyes
since we are all god who watches itself.
Though we all walk together on the bridge
of endless possibilities through hunger,
we stare in the same mirror of one self.
Though I see myself on the television
each separate self I am has other names
so each one makes their own mistakes from pride
but seeks to make justice no one else serves.
We sit alone in silent loneliness
and talk to each other on social media
to embody the absence of our ghosts.
We change the masks we wear ten thousand times
to become each other for hour of play,
exploring roles strange to our normal minds
so we befriend the strangers in ourselves.
Now that I live your life through your weird poems
you become another ghost haunting me
for all the strangers I know float around me.
After playing other people for a while
we become the secret selves we forgot
to savor the loneliness of ourselves
when we sing together in ring of stars.
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