Where He Rebuilds Heaven
© Surazeus
2018 10 06
The laugh of death is hacked in granite mask
the dead god wears when he gives me the task
to convert zombies of the Christian church
into angels who sing where the owls perch
on golden parapet of the glass hall
as children paint new stories on the wall.
The high school students crowd across the lawn
where they will sit in church to pray and yawn
while the preacher in the blue suit on stage
waves the Bible to talk of faith and rage
but I ride my dragon through empty skies
and long to be the apple of her eyes.
She wears white frilly dress with soft pink lace
and smiles as gold hair falls around her face
when I sit beside her on the plush pew
and long to kiss her in the meadow dew
each time we stand to sing the solemn hymn,
and how I adore her, so sweet and prim.
But I have no money nor motor car
so when I hear the call of my True Star
I travel down the signless roads alone
to sit by the river on the cracked stone
and compose the story-song of my heart
so I can design my new world-view chart.
Each city I must visit on my quest
to navigate clues of Chanson de Geste
contains new puzzle piece in sacred truth
that guides my growth to be troubadour sleuth
researching why people pray to dead gods
which reveals all prophets are greedy frauds.
The prophet cries out in the wilderness,
there is no secret for great happiness,
but still we gather by the shining lake
to share delicious feast our mothers bake
then sing by broad stream in the twilight zone
where the blind prophet plays flute carved from bone.
I am no prophet of the nameless god
whose daughter plants seeds in the fertile sod
for I am Dionysus dancing wild
with Queen Mary who bears my sacred child
we name Apollo who controls the light
by singing sweet spells that dispel the night.
The tree that shimmers on the river shore
I cut down and craft into temple door
as magic portal to the Other World
where no fierce nation-states with flags unfurled
fight world wars to control the narrative,
lead by blind god who funds imperative.
All those abandoned churches of the land,
controlled by the pope with the red right hand,
echo no more with solemn hymns of praise
for the people now wander through the maze
of beautiful illusions preachers sell
to keep ignorant fools under their spell.
The people are but grass in flash of time
who follow the sincere messiah mime
but he leads them to the Slough of Despond
where the mad wizard with the broken wand
tries to convince them that Heaven is real
while his simple daughter invents the wheel.
Orpheus leads us to the Cave of Death
where he teaches us to take a deep breath
so we can find the spirit of true love,
who fell so far from bright Heaven above,
and build new empire from ruins of faith
that follows man and not the divine wraith.
Bright sunlight shimmers on the hills of hope
where the last messiah hangs from the rope
that dangles tattered from the Tree of Life
so Jesus hides from the mob with his wife
and takes their children to the Promised Land
where he rebuilds Heaven with craftsman hand.
© Surazeus
2018 10 06
The laugh of death is hacked in granite mask
the dead god wears when he gives me the task
to convert zombies of the Christian church
into angels who sing where the owls perch
on golden parapet of the glass hall
as children paint new stories on the wall.
The high school students crowd across the lawn
where they will sit in church to pray and yawn
while the preacher in the blue suit on stage
waves the Bible to talk of faith and rage
but I ride my dragon through empty skies
and long to be the apple of her eyes.
She wears white frilly dress with soft pink lace
and smiles as gold hair falls around her face
when I sit beside her on the plush pew
and long to kiss her in the meadow dew
each time we stand to sing the solemn hymn,
and how I adore her, so sweet and prim.
But I have no money nor motor car
so when I hear the call of my True Star
I travel down the signless roads alone
to sit by the river on the cracked stone
and compose the story-song of my heart
so I can design my new world-view chart.
Each city I must visit on my quest
to navigate clues of Chanson de Geste
contains new puzzle piece in sacred truth
that guides my growth to be troubadour sleuth
researching why people pray to dead gods
which reveals all prophets are greedy frauds.
The prophet cries out in the wilderness,
there is no secret for great happiness,
but still we gather by the shining lake
to share delicious feast our mothers bake
then sing by broad stream in the twilight zone
where the blind prophet plays flute carved from bone.
I am no prophet of the nameless god
whose daughter plants seeds in the fertile sod
for I am Dionysus dancing wild
with Queen Mary who bears my sacred child
we name Apollo who controls the light
by singing sweet spells that dispel the night.
The tree that shimmers on the river shore
I cut down and craft into temple door
as magic portal to the Other World
where no fierce nation-states with flags unfurled
fight world wars to control the narrative,
lead by blind god who funds imperative.
All those abandoned churches of the land,
controlled by the pope with the red right hand,
echo no more with solemn hymns of praise
for the people now wander through the maze
of beautiful illusions preachers sell
to keep ignorant fools under their spell.
The people are but grass in flash of time
who follow the sincere messiah mime
but he leads them to the Slough of Despond
where the mad wizard with the broken wand
tries to convince them that Heaven is real
while his simple daughter invents the wheel.
Orpheus leads us to the Cave of Death
where he teaches us to take a deep breath
so we can find the spirit of true love,
who fell so far from bright Heaven above,
and build new empire from ruins of faith
that follows man and not the divine wraith.
Bright sunlight shimmers on the hills of hope
where the last messiah hangs from the rope
that dangles tattered from the Tree of Life
so Jesus hides from the mob with his wife
and takes their children to the Promised Land
where he rebuilds Heaven with craftsman hand.
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