Lost In The Wind

Lost In The Wind
© Surazeus
2019 03 03

Lost in the wind of the excessive truth 
that carelessly plays among towers of glass, 
where angels perform rituals to connect 
calculations of value to strict flow 
of conceptual matter packaged in words, 
we arrange strange perceptions of ourselves 
in tranquil lightning of the frozen lawn 
where miraculous urges crack our eyes. 

Today is water that smears memories 
as rain on windows of our silent souls 
so we lie naked on infinite pools 
to become smallness of our fragile world 
and taste electric space between our hearts 
so we break surface of recurring time 
to rise from bottomless ocean of truth 
and listen to slanting beams of sunlight. 

Each shaft of sunlight beaming from the sun, 
shot sparkling sharp by spider of star light, 
arrives to replace our bodies with breath 
of shuddering spirits spiraling from moist soil 
to weave rancid threads of angst through our brains 
that throb thick as sponges in gloom-wild sea 
so we rise reborn as ruminant angels 
to caress delicate curves of nameless eyes. 

Stripped naked of my name and class and creed, 
I stand on water-covered bridge of hope 
and hold in trembling hands seeds of lost fruits 
that contain photos of each conscious soul 
who ever lived in history of our world 
so I leave fading shadows of footprints 
on our fractured mirror of infinite love 
to meet you by the misty lake of eyes. 

Ten billion transparent cars flash awake 
to glide in streams of shining agony 
that vibrate on one giant harp of glass 
which beams electric ball of dark desire 
that buzzes lithe bodies of boys and girls 
who writhe forever under blooming trees, 
faces startled by swirls of galaxies 
whose roots sprout into birds of aching lust. 

So when we wake, after booming guns cease 
blasting frail egg shell of civilization 
to fragments of memories, glued in collage 
of existential dread, we walk outside 
church of lies to see the lost pilot sit 
alone under apple tree where cracked skulls 
of castle kings recite new alphabet 
our children use to calculate world views. 

Because the silent rain that veils dread horror 
is safest place to hide from happiness, 
I chase the trees through shadows of ennui 
and drink fermented grapes from skulls of kings 
where something swims out far beyond the truth 
in catastrophic rush of beauty drowned 
by tears of children who know why we fear 
to spread invisible wings and fly home. 

Lost in the wind of spiritual decay, 
I wear new masks of lost souls every day 
so I become each soul who ever lived 
and merge their multitudes in single ache 
of my loving heart to transcend despair 
for each person killed in ten thousand wars 
whose shadows haunt my still-opening doors 
because they want to explain to me why.