Widening Gyre Of Change
© Surazeus
2018 09 20
From glass of milk on soul-astounding plain
where bees play violins in laughing rain
I swim across the deep abyss of hope
and stumble somewhere up high mountain slope
to find the temple where the blind man sings
because the devil tore his angel wings.
The sad philosopher by turtle pond
in long fur coat, with broken wizard wand
and tattered novel, gazes down long street
of misty Paris where the river beat
awakes my heart to rhythm of strange verse,
to become estranged from our universe.
We are autonomous subjects of I,
estranged from gaze of the maternal eye
through abject distance from her loving arms,
enchanted by her invisible charms
to create our own self from mask she lost
while accounting for weird prophetic cost.
Rejecting what is alien to the soul
we become more separate part of the whole
while she hovers above us in the sky
to break through fragile borders of the I
and teach us the mystery of second birth
because we are god-consciousness of Earth.
I wear the mask of myself I create
from face of my mother I contemplate
before I was born from this flash of rain
that weaves from laughter of atomic skein
eternal robot of the shining mind
programmed from pattern my father designed.
I run through fairyland to magic ring
when I hear the twelve pretty muses sing,
and find inside circle of ringing stones
Byron and Keats beating huge skulls with bones
while Shelley and Orpheus chant weird spell
that causes me to writhe from the deep well.
I join their joyful dance of prancing song,
not caring whether they think I belong,
and leap floating stones over deep abyss
to transform pain into confident bliss
through weird expression of conceptual verse
that conjures dream of the whole universe.
The river goddess smiles at me with love
to prophesy how far I rise above
the clamoring crowd to quiet grove of trees
where I bare my naked heart to the breeze
and chant the vision of truth I perceive
by leaping far beyond illusions they believe.
How well we organize our random thoughts
in classic rhythm of programmed robots
who record all knowledge of man in memes
which play like puppets in forgotten dreams
to guide our way to wisdom of the cave
where shadows hide the secret we must save.
Though once again things seem to fall apart
and fly away from center of the heart
through turning of the cosmic ticking gyre
we build cathedral with antenna spire
where Spirit of the World in human form
enchants our minds to fight the fascist storm.
Each generation one man rises tall
to cast his shadow on the ancient wall
and guide vast nation with the rule of law
to supersede raw violence of the claw
and as messiah of the chosen tribe
dictates new story for the history scribe.
We ride now on the widening gyre of change
each eighty years transforming beyond range
of what we were before to become more
than angry workers slouching through the door
to vote for messiah every four years
who comes again to soothe our hungry tears.
I was not born in Bethlehem this time
yet here I design new world paradigm
from twenty centuries of dreamless sleep
based on the proverb we sow what we reap
in building empire of the world wide web
connecting billions of minds in thought ebb.
On current of this river from the cave
where shadows pulse with every restless wave
that surges from the ocean of our souls
we all design our autonomous roles
we will play in Theater of the Absurd,
invited by puzzle of the ghost word.
Somewhere in sands of the desert I go,
shaped like the lion man who rules the snow,
with gaze connected to computer circuits,
observant as the wizard of the circus
that beams warm sunlight from indifferent sky
because I will continue asking why.
We live on fragile spinning globe of souls,
so I feast on apples and play with foals
to escape thought-control of the grand king,
then hide riddles in secret spells I sing
that helps us ride the widening gyre of change
where I rule the world from the mountain range.
© Surazeus
2018 09 20
From glass of milk on soul-astounding plain
where bees play violins in laughing rain
I swim across the deep abyss of hope
and stumble somewhere up high mountain slope
to find the temple where the blind man sings
because the devil tore his angel wings.
The sad philosopher by turtle pond
in long fur coat, with broken wizard wand
and tattered novel, gazes down long street
of misty Paris where the river beat
awakes my heart to rhythm of strange verse,
to become estranged from our universe.
We are autonomous subjects of I,
estranged from gaze of the maternal eye
through abject distance from her loving arms,
enchanted by her invisible charms
to create our own self from mask she lost
while accounting for weird prophetic cost.
Rejecting what is alien to the soul
we become more separate part of the whole
while she hovers above us in the sky
to break through fragile borders of the I
and teach us the mystery of second birth
because we are god-consciousness of Earth.
I wear the mask of myself I create
from face of my mother I contemplate
before I was born from this flash of rain
that weaves from laughter of atomic skein
eternal robot of the shining mind
programmed from pattern my father designed.
I run through fairyland to magic ring
when I hear the twelve pretty muses sing,
and find inside circle of ringing stones
Byron and Keats beating huge skulls with bones
while Shelley and Orpheus chant weird spell
that causes me to writhe from the deep well.
I join their joyful dance of prancing song,
not caring whether they think I belong,
and leap floating stones over deep abyss
to transform pain into confident bliss
through weird expression of conceptual verse
that conjures dream of the whole universe.
The river goddess smiles at me with love
to prophesy how far I rise above
the clamoring crowd to quiet grove of trees
where I bare my naked heart to the breeze
and chant the vision of truth I perceive
by leaping far beyond illusions they believe.
How well we organize our random thoughts
in classic rhythm of programmed robots
who record all knowledge of man in memes
which play like puppets in forgotten dreams
to guide our way to wisdom of the cave
where shadows hide the secret we must save.
Though once again things seem to fall apart
and fly away from center of the heart
through turning of the cosmic ticking gyre
we build cathedral with antenna spire
where Spirit of the World in human form
enchants our minds to fight the fascist storm.
Each generation one man rises tall
to cast his shadow on the ancient wall
and guide vast nation with the rule of law
to supersede raw violence of the claw
and as messiah of the chosen tribe
dictates new story for the history scribe.
We ride now on the widening gyre of change
each eighty years transforming beyond range
of what we were before to become more
than angry workers slouching through the door
to vote for messiah every four years
who comes again to soothe our hungry tears.
I was not born in Bethlehem this time
yet here I design new world paradigm
from twenty centuries of dreamless sleep
based on the proverb we sow what we reap
in building empire of the world wide web
connecting billions of minds in thought ebb.
On current of this river from the cave
where shadows pulse with every restless wave
that surges from the ocean of our souls
we all design our autonomous roles
we will play in Theater of the Absurd,
invited by puzzle of the ghost word.
Somewhere in sands of the desert I go,
shaped like the lion man who rules the snow,
with gaze connected to computer circuits,
observant as the wizard of the circus
that beams warm sunlight from indifferent sky
because I will continue asking why.
We live on fragile spinning globe of souls,
so I feast on apples and play with foals
to escape thought-control of the grand king,
then hide riddles in secret spells I sing
that helps us ride the widening gyre of change
where I rule the world from the mountain range.
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