Empty Picture Frames
© Surazeus
2018 12 18
She watches the orange roll across the table
like our bright sun plunging into the black hole.
They walk together on the ocean shore,
hoping to understand code of the door.
We are alive for no reason but fate
that our parents met and desired to mate.
She laughs and grabs the orange before it falls,
then hangs empty picture frames on blank walls.
The faceless god who dreams behind our masks
remembers when our atoms still pulsed bright
within hot furnace of the blazing star
that forges molecules of flashing strands
which spiral into coils of conscious genes
so when we rise from river of desire
we stand before the tree of glowing fruit
and thus we eat light in heart of the orange.
She walks the hall of shadows to the room
where spirits of the living congregate
to talk about the lightning flash of doom
whose vibrant current calculates our fate.
She leaves her secrets coded in the book
that everyone reads while riding the bus,
Rapunzel singing in the castle rook
who loves him as his special succubus.
The many-faced god who knows her real name
reveals weird contours of the human soul
in ever-changing pattern of white clouds
that reflect rays of light from divine eye
of sweet indifferent Death who always comes
just before dawn to sit mute at her side
and explain strange concept of give and take
when nameless lovers reincarnate souls.
If she can say it all ten thousand ways
that lead us through his strange confusing maze
so we find paradise inside our hearts
without recourse to religious-myth charts,
then she will sing new spell for every soul
so we more clearly perceive the White Whole
from which infinity swirls into worlds
where conscious beings awake in ocean curls.
She transforms bedroom where her son grew up
into private nook where she can spend time
contemplating complex mysteries of life,
and compose poems that chart her psychic quest
through fractured maze of our civilization
and reveal how she reorganized chaos
to design rituals channeling energy,
which nourishes perception of the truth.
She holds cold rain shining in her small hands
to explain how light splits in color bands.
They descend grand stairs by library hall
and listen to weird songs of leaves that fall.
We are alive through accident of lust
when strangers copulate from ache of trust.
She chuckles and snatches the rolling orange
while explaining secret purpose of Stonehenge.
She walks with singing shadows through our house
to take empty picture frames from blank walls,
then slips photos of strangers in each one
who watch her walk away across vast plain
to weave flashing sunlight in drops of rain
so when we gather in the ring of stones
she will arrive on the galloping horse
and sing weird mysteries of our universe.
© Surazeus
2018 12 18
She watches the orange roll across the table
like our bright sun plunging into the black hole.
They walk together on the ocean shore,
hoping to understand code of the door.
We are alive for no reason but fate
that our parents met and desired to mate.
She laughs and grabs the orange before it falls,
then hangs empty picture frames on blank walls.
The faceless god who dreams behind our masks
remembers when our atoms still pulsed bright
within hot furnace of the blazing star
that forges molecules of flashing strands
which spiral into coils of conscious genes
so when we rise from river of desire
we stand before the tree of glowing fruit
and thus we eat light in heart of the orange.
She walks the hall of shadows to the room
where spirits of the living congregate
to talk about the lightning flash of doom
whose vibrant current calculates our fate.
She leaves her secrets coded in the book
that everyone reads while riding the bus,
Rapunzel singing in the castle rook
who loves him as his special succubus.
The many-faced god who knows her real name
reveals weird contours of the human soul
in ever-changing pattern of white clouds
that reflect rays of light from divine eye
of sweet indifferent Death who always comes
just before dawn to sit mute at her side
and explain strange concept of give and take
when nameless lovers reincarnate souls.
If she can say it all ten thousand ways
that lead us through his strange confusing maze
so we find paradise inside our hearts
without recourse to religious-myth charts,
then she will sing new spell for every soul
so we more clearly perceive the White Whole
from which infinity swirls into worlds
where conscious beings awake in ocean curls.
She transforms bedroom where her son grew up
into private nook where she can spend time
contemplating complex mysteries of life,
and compose poems that chart her psychic quest
through fractured maze of our civilization
and reveal how she reorganized chaos
to design rituals channeling energy,
which nourishes perception of the truth.
She holds cold rain shining in her small hands
to explain how light splits in color bands.
They descend grand stairs by library hall
and listen to weird songs of leaves that fall.
We are alive through accident of lust
when strangers copulate from ache of trust.
She chuckles and snatches the rolling orange
while explaining secret purpose of Stonehenge.
She walks with singing shadows through our house
to take empty picture frames from blank walls,
then slips photos of strangers in each one
who watch her walk away across vast plain
to weave flashing sunlight in drops of rain
so when we gather in the ring of stones
she will arrive on the galloping horse
and sing weird mysteries of our universe.
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