Glass Face In The Rain

Glass Face In The Rain
© Surazeus
2018 10 27

The song of blue light, silent in my cells,
reveals formulas for nuclear soul links
which forge alphabet of neurons to catch
wind of aching sky, mirrored by vast eye
who dreams glass passion of my consciousness,
therefore I am strange laughter I repress.

The voice within my shadow, secret wings
of faithful skepticism whirling wind,
wakes me from heart-numbing routine of life,
so I must translate silence into scripture
people will consult to know how they should
react to our life-threatening games of chess.

Yet when I try to translate flashing river
faces congeal from mud of rancid trust,
because people will always find the worst,
convincing themselves they can avoid death
if they believe the light of stars loves them,
though maybe they can blame the distant truth.

Taut thread of change I follow from Big Bang
leads me on path of interacting eyes
so I become myself in dream of time,
destined to fulfill chaotic design
which allows room for flexible adjustment
although preordained by physical laws.

The transient distraction of light on water
reveals our bodies were not designed first
except as random possibilities
where atoms could combine in these set ways
to produce four-legged creature with brain
that perceives itself as part of the world.

I listen to moonlight flash on blank snow
that joins my heart to the infinite sky
when I embrace time and timelessness close
to understand rhythm of beating hearts,
echoed by sea waves who invent new names
for living statues haunting every home.

The bridge beginning in the trees extends
careful fingers to caress frail owl wings,
so we drink sound enough to rise from death
and stand now here on this central still-point
at center of the universe that spirals
back inward through whirlpool of my brain web.

Mute wanderer who finds the laughing storm
inside swift-moving mountain of wild trees
captures nuance of every whipping breeze
to tune ancient guitar with strange new sound
that shatters wall of silence we had built
to retain wisdom of money from death.

This tinkling shadow that lulls me from sleep
knows who could better calculate cold waves
that throw our bodies on muck river bed
so we must rise on legs of aching hope
to crawl forever over broken worlds
and taste the sorrow of rain in ripe fruit.

I know the walkways of this secret garden
where winter wants to understand my need
but flowers ask me questions in therapy
how cheese and grapes reveal the long-lost key
which explains how stars spark away my mind,
therefore we let evening come with a sigh.

The sacred line of loving when blind snow
beats fractured windows for accepting prayers,
chafing distant hills with unspoken words,
binds my heart so tight my rage becomes wings,
thus I am water drops, the way it is
fragile as the child we create is us.

Half-awake four hours before blast of dawn,
I am frail hills wavering through gray mist,
uncaring whether I may become real
again as that puppet with skeleton
of fractured glass I am during the day,
glass face in the rain of forever now.