Journey Somewhere Else

Journey Somewhere Else
© Surazeus
2019 01 15

The way the numberless day opens book
of silver skies to record faceless dream
of sunlight on the window of the car
that glides along the white highway of faith
reminds me of when the trees call my name
which I buried by the river of flowers.

Although the river winds along the meadow
to swallow whispers no one ever speaks
past midnight, the erased moon reasons why
someone asks the blank wall to explain how
death never appears to the vigilant
who describe softness of wind in the willow.

However fast the journey somewhere else,
leaving the university town frozen
under indifferent snow of naked faith,
the rolling mountains where mist will be born
show me the way to go past the blank door
of bitter hatred to the hall of laughter.

After I graduate with science degree,
that proves I mastered art of making maps,
I drive nine hundred miles through rugged hills
from Michigan to Carolina coast
where we play laughing on the shining sand
by stealing memories from books never read.

The way memories of the dead sleep in books
of tangled words, silent in antique shops
on the side road among orange leaves, exudes
mute ghosts who play chess in quaint coffee shops,
and talk about the wise philosophers
who still linger in ruins of ancient temples.

Lost in the dream world of fake memories,
painting masks of dead gods we want to wear
at church to hide rotten despair with faith,
we walk together on the country road
to visit the park among tall pine trees
where princess in blue dress writes names in dirt.

Rotting under leaves in dark grove of trees
beneath the busy highway of glass cars,
the author lies dead, still clutching frail quill
he used to write every library book
that no one reads, so I write the new myth
now flashing on your television screens.

The way idols of dead people beam bright
from splotches of ink on flat sheets of paper,
memories of their names conjured up as ghosts
in minds of people who remember them,
amazes me how letters, well arranged
as puzzles of hope, bring the dead to life.

Apollo is the god of all the singers
because his idol ghost assimilates
millions of dead singers in one persona,
which provides behavioral guide to aspirants
seeking to win fame as the greatest singer
who ever enchants our eyes with grand visions.

The way the indifferent day opens book
of empty skies to record secret names
of billions of nobodies who work hard
to build civilization from their bones
reminds me of when the lake calls my name
to sing names of the dead in weeping wind.

Always here in the maze of human stories,
I find true masks of the Many-Faced God
whose figure casts shadow on temple floor,
then give them away to the nameless people
who gather in the church to renew faith
in the Glow-Cloud God who will never speak.

Who wants to join my Quest for Seven Keys
that open glowing doors to magic lands
where devils haunt the shadows of despair
so we can dispel them with light of truth
that we express when angels fall from Heaven
to become the people with mundane names?

The journey somewhere else I ever take
leads me so far beyond ancient homeland
where my mother still waits in lake-hall door
that I encircle the whole spinning globe,
following the sun back to where I was born,
so we number days that open the book.

The way the infinite day opens book
of glowing eyes to record deeds of gods
who smile at me from sunlight on the window
reminds me of when the sea calls my name
to explain how I was born in her womb
for I am spirit of the Earth in flesh.