Men Sink In The Muddy Stream
© Surazeus
2019 02 02
I want to live well as long as I can
yet Death is always lurking close behind
mocking me with horror of nothingness,
so I savor sweet light on everything
that glows with melancholy fortitude.
How sweet it is to look into your eyes
and hear your voice as you talk about things,
animated by essence of desire.
More than one hundred fifty years ago
sons of farmers, dressed in wool uniforms,
sailed steam ships along gush of flowing rivers
to shoot balls from cannons with blasting fire.
I hear crickets in trees on the far shore,
singing as men sink in the muddy stream.
I can smell scent of wood steamed soft to bend
as I mold thick beams into hulls of ships.
Another sunset smears blood of dead men
across the silver sky of empty hope.
Old women and children gather in church
to sing about the coming of the savior
while men with guns run through the misty woods
and shoot the shadows of monsters they fear.
I hear their voices across centuries
still singing across the broad muddy streams.
Soft song of water lapping at wood hull
wakes memory of my mother after sunset
singing hymns about the garden of trees.
The sun forever shines through flashing leaves
to tweak strange sorrow in my joyful heart.
Instead of tending vegetables and herbs
or feeding chickens and pigs in the yard,
I want to stand on deck of sailing ships
and feel thick hulls gliding over high waves.
The brutal injustice of slavery
and the screams of men shot by guns in war
vibrate beneath tension of politics
that twist our hearts against harsh tyranny.
We must fight for liberty of all people,
I want to tweet in hurricane of voices
that clash over definition of freedom.
I stand alone on river shore and hum.
I pry darkness apart with rays of light
to generate sparks of truth between eyes
so music of our hearts move between shade
of boundless nothing that reveals our minds.
Our bodies are nothing but pulsing sparks
of quick immortal atoms flashing bright.
My ship glides bouncing on rough river waves
past islands where skeletons dance in rain.
Deep as silent hills forever strong here,
I tend apple trees and build river boats,
then sit on porch of my house by the stream
and listen to infinity explain
perfection of each action I perform.
Strange adoration for butterfly wings
persists in secret code of aching hymns
I sing while covering hillsides with white doors.
No matter how close Death gets to my heart,
I still move forward through maze of despair,
slipping through doors of mirrors no one sees
to become my true self that has no name.
I look into bright sparkle of your eyes
and see vast galaxies of flashing suns
reveal sweet kindness of your gentle soul.
© Surazeus
2019 02 02
I want to live well as long as I can
yet Death is always lurking close behind
mocking me with horror of nothingness,
so I savor sweet light on everything
that glows with melancholy fortitude.
How sweet it is to look into your eyes
and hear your voice as you talk about things,
animated by essence of desire.
More than one hundred fifty years ago
sons of farmers, dressed in wool uniforms,
sailed steam ships along gush of flowing rivers
to shoot balls from cannons with blasting fire.
I hear crickets in trees on the far shore,
singing as men sink in the muddy stream.
I can smell scent of wood steamed soft to bend
as I mold thick beams into hulls of ships.
Another sunset smears blood of dead men
across the silver sky of empty hope.
Old women and children gather in church
to sing about the coming of the savior
while men with guns run through the misty woods
and shoot the shadows of monsters they fear.
I hear their voices across centuries
still singing across the broad muddy streams.
Soft song of water lapping at wood hull
wakes memory of my mother after sunset
singing hymns about the garden of trees.
The sun forever shines through flashing leaves
to tweak strange sorrow in my joyful heart.
Instead of tending vegetables and herbs
or feeding chickens and pigs in the yard,
I want to stand on deck of sailing ships
and feel thick hulls gliding over high waves.
The brutal injustice of slavery
and the screams of men shot by guns in war
vibrate beneath tension of politics
that twist our hearts against harsh tyranny.
We must fight for liberty of all people,
I want to tweet in hurricane of voices
that clash over definition of freedom.
I stand alone on river shore and hum.
I pry darkness apart with rays of light
to generate sparks of truth between eyes
so music of our hearts move between shade
of boundless nothing that reveals our minds.
Our bodies are nothing but pulsing sparks
of quick immortal atoms flashing bright.
My ship glides bouncing on rough river waves
past islands where skeletons dance in rain.
Deep as silent hills forever strong here,
I tend apple trees and build river boats,
then sit on porch of my house by the stream
and listen to infinity explain
perfection of each action I perform.
Strange adoration for butterfly wings
persists in secret code of aching hymns
I sing while covering hillsides with white doors.
No matter how close Death gets to my heart,
I still move forward through maze of despair,
slipping through doors of mirrors no one sees
to become my true self that has no name.
I look into bright sparkle of your eyes
and see vast galaxies of flashing suns
reveal sweet kindness of your gentle soul.
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