Bearing My Voice
© Surazeus
2018 12 13
Mist floats among the trees of silent woods.
I almost think I hear voices of souls
who once passed through this space long years ago.
I cannot hear them while driving my car,
so I park by the fence and walk in grass
wet from morning dew to hear their mute thoughts.
They tell me nothing new about this world
I did not already know from old tales.
I drive to work in town at my flower shop,
which my father funded before he died.
Since capitalism funds operations
of businesses so they produce more goods,
I think it is the best production system.
Since communism evaluates needs
so everyone receives enough to eat,
I think it is the best distribution system.
Flowers are symbols of human emotions
which correspond their beauty to our feelings.
My business selling the beauty of flowers
so people express emotions they feel
is sweet frosting on the cake of society,
the frilly lace on the practical dress.
People buy flowers with money earned at work
so I can buy food they grow from the dirt.
My ancestors back home in Germany
decorated pine trees with fruit and gifts
to celebrate the turning of the year
long before they turned to the christian faith.
They refused to give up that ancient practice
so priests decreed the tree is about Jesus
and not Iduna, mother of fruit trees.
Thus my Christmas Tree is about the Light.
I wonder what my daughter wants for Christmas?
She likes the tale Fullmetal Alchemist,
so I should buy her large chemistry set
to inspire her to study chemistry
when she attends the university.
Nearing downtown, I stop at the red light
and watch my good friends opening their stores.
I will tell her, scientists earn more money.
Pushing gas pedal when the light glows green,
I drive toward my quaint flower shop painted white.
The red pickup truck with guns on the rack
races fast to get through the yellow light
and smashes into my little green car,
crushing my soul to sparks of silver mist.
Mist floats among the trees of silent woods,
bearing my voice into its sunlit space.
© Surazeus
2018 12 13
Mist floats among the trees of silent woods.
I almost think I hear voices of souls
who once passed through this space long years ago.
I cannot hear them while driving my car,
so I park by the fence and walk in grass
wet from morning dew to hear their mute thoughts.
They tell me nothing new about this world
I did not already know from old tales.
I drive to work in town at my flower shop,
which my father funded before he died.
Since capitalism funds operations
of businesses so they produce more goods,
I think it is the best production system.
Since communism evaluates needs
so everyone receives enough to eat,
I think it is the best distribution system.
Flowers are symbols of human emotions
which correspond their beauty to our feelings.
My business selling the beauty of flowers
so people express emotions they feel
is sweet frosting on the cake of society,
the frilly lace on the practical dress.
People buy flowers with money earned at work
so I can buy food they grow from the dirt.
My ancestors back home in Germany
decorated pine trees with fruit and gifts
to celebrate the turning of the year
long before they turned to the christian faith.
They refused to give up that ancient practice
so priests decreed the tree is about Jesus
and not Iduna, mother of fruit trees.
Thus my Christmas Tree is about the Light.
I wonder what my daughter wants for Christmas?
She likes the tale Fullmetal Alchemist,
so I should buy her large chemistry set
to inspire her to study chemistry
when she attends the university.
Nearing downtown, I stop at the red light
and watch my good friends opening their stores.
I will tell her, scientists earn more money.
Pushing gas pedal when the light glows green,
I drive toward my quaint flower shop painted white.
The red pickup truck with guns on the rack
races fast to get through the yellow light
and smashes into my little green car,
crushing my soul to sparks of silver mist.
Mist floats among the trees of silent woods,
bearing my voice into its sunlit space.
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