Why The World Spins Around
© Surazeus
2019 01 11
The angel in the telephone is dead,
still singing in the sea waves of my head,
so I stare out the window at weird sky
and dream infinity inside my eye,
then drink cold milk as the world spins around
as nothing bulges from the laughing ground.
The songs I hear in churches imitate
beating wings of locusts who still debate
the best way to record the flow of time,
as numbers carved on trees or riddling rhyme,
so I ponder how the world spins around
within certain phenomena of sound.
The angel of Jehovah steals the moon
while riding in the silk hot-air balloon
to measure nothingness in every room
storing new fractals of the flashing gloom
which calculates how the world spins around,
indifferent to our game King of the Mound.
Now silent in the pulsing garden shade
I watch the ever-blazing sun soft fade
to beams of light that slant through singing trees
so I become the secret of the breeze
that flashes bright as the world spins around
to reveal where the Holy Grail was found.
I want to find my way back to my home
though music of light urges me to roam
through shimmering matrix of the endless frame
which narrates natural process of the name
illustrating why the world spins around
while everyone explores the misty downs.
How fast the sun revolves across the sky,
vacating blankness of my dreaming eye,
so I perceive all forms of conscious light
who rise from swirling waves of cosmic white
to authorize how the world spins around
regardless of why the dead god was crowned.
Once be is declared finale of seem
by primal mother in the gushing stream,
we gather apples from the dew-wet field
and chant weird spells blind all-father revealed
to ride swift wheels as the world spins around
then dance all night in the stonehenge fairground.
The angel in the television sings,
explaining how to fly on silver wings,
so I stand in the church of slanting rays
to draw maps that help navigate the maze
which correlates why the world spins around
since I love the Earth to which I am bound.
© Surazeus
2019 01 11
The angel in the telephone is dead,
still singing in the sea waves of my head,
so I stare out the window at weird sky
and dream infinity inside my eye,
then drink cold milk as the world spins around
as nothing bulges from the laughing ground.
The songs I hear in churches imitate
beating wings of locusts who still debate
the best way to record the flow of time,
as numbers carved on trees or riddling rhyme,
so I ponder how the world spins around
within certain phenomena of sound.
The angel of Jehovah steals the moon
while riding in the silk hot-air balloon
to measure nothingness in every room
storing new fractals of the flashing gloom
which calculates how the world spins around,
indifferent to our game King of the Mound.
Now silent in the pulsing garden shade
I watch the ever-blazing sun soft fade
to beams of light that slant through singing trees
so I become the secret of the breeze
that flashes bright as the world spins around
to reveal where the Holy Grail was found.
I want to find my way back to my home
though music of light urges me to roam
through shimmering matrix of the endless frame
which narrates natural process of the name
illustrating why the world spins around
while everyone explores the misty downs.
How fast the sun revolves across the sky,
vacating blankness of my dreaming eye,
so I perceive all forms of conscious light
who rise from swirling waves of cosmic white
to authorize how the world spins around
regardless of why the dead god was crowned.
Once be is declared finale of seem
by primal mother in the gushing stream,
we gather apples from the dew-wet field
and chant weird spells blind all-father revealed
to ride swift wheels as the world spins around
then dance all night in the stonehenge fairground.
The angel in the television sings,
explaining how to fly on silver wings,
so I stand in the church of slanting rays
to draw maps that help navigate the maze
which correlates why the world spins around
since I love the Earth to which I am bound.
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