Pilgrimage Of Childe Albert
© Surazeus
2018 11 01
Black clouds swirl ragged across the bleak sky.
I sit in front of the library hall,
and watch the devil who does not exist
paint shadows of fear on the red brick wall.
I stare at the soul of nothing at all
and ask the question no one dares to ask
for fear infinity would swallow truth.
Of every soul who lived, why am I me?
I remember nothing before my birth
and I blank out when I drift into sleep.
Through all the vast time-flash of particles
why am I alive in this body now,
sitting here at this spot on all the world?
Every strange thought that flashes through my brain
vanishes forever in change of time.
I eat coffee cake and stare at the sky.
We overthrew all monarchies from power
to study geometry of the flower.
Ten thousand prophets at computer screens
write poems to calculate the shape of death
revealed by weird curl in tail of the cat.
You see what you want to see in my eyes
even though my words reveal mysteries
everyone thought about before they died.
The pilgrimage of Childe Albert to Heaven
paves the way for his loyal followers
to gather in libraries every day
where they sing visions of his prophecies.
Emerging from the sea-lit cave of shadows,
the messiah walks alone on the beach,
thinking about how neurons of brains work.
I savor beauty of truth till I die.
Strumming guitar on street corner at noon,
to record noble deeds of the dead hero,
I study souls of people walking by
which shines behind the mask of their deception.
How am I aware of myself alone?
The black shiny car I drive on the road
takes me from the maze of modernity
through the looking glass of electric spells.
The young girl wearing the white lace dress smiles
brighter than ten thousand suns to reveal
fractures in puzzle of my memories
so I remember where I found my name.
Alone on gold mountain by jagged crag,
I stare astonished at swirls of gray mist
that splatter teardrops on my soft pale skin.
Will I still be conscious after I die?
© Surazeus
2018 11 01
Black clouds swirl ragged across the bleak sky.
I sit in front of the library hall,
and watch the devil who does not exist
paint shadows of fear on the red brick wall.
I stare at the soul of nothing at all
and ask the question no one dares to ask
for fear infinity would swallow truth.
Of every soul who lived, why am I me?
I remember nothing before my birth
and I blank out when I drift into sleep.
Through all the vast time-flash of particles
why am I alive in this body now,
sitting here at this spot on all the world?
Every strange thought that flashes through my brain
vanishes forever in change of time.
I eat coffee cake and stare at the sky.
We overthrew all monarchies from power
to study geometry of the flower.
Ten thousand prophets at computer screens
write poems to calculate the shape of death
revealed by weird curl in tail of the cat.
You see what you want to see in my eyes
even though my words reveal mysteries
everyone thought about before they died.
The pilgrimage of Childe Albert to Heaven
paves the way for his loyal followers
to gather in libraries every day
where they sing visions of his prophecies.
Emerging from the sea-lit cave of shadows,
the messiah walks alone on the beach,
thinking about how neurons of brains work.
I savor beauty of truth till I die.
Strumming guitar on street corner at noon,
to record noble deeds of the dead hero,
I study souls of people walking by
which shines behind the mask of their deception.
How am I aware of myself alone?
The black shiny car I drive on the road
takes me from the maze of modernity
through the looking glass of electric spells.
The young girl wearing the white lace dress smiles
brighter than ten thousand suns to reveal
fractures in puzzle of my memories
so I remember where I found my name.
Alone on gold mountain by jagged crag,
I stare astonished at swirls of gray mist
that splatter teardrops on my soft pale skin.
Will I still be conscious after I die?
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