Waxen Wings Of Regret

Waxen Wings Of Regret
© Surazeus
2025 03 04

Spooked by soft whisper of the window light, 
the young deer runs across the fenced-in yard, 
then darts across the narrow asphalt road 
to wander gracefully down to the lake 
where no swan-god swoops from clouds of desire 
to bear the tongueless girl up to the stars. 

Annoyed at flight of crows across gray clouds, 
I search echoing caverns of my heart 
to locate voice of my poetic soul 
that produces speech with ethereal vibes 
which radiate from iron core of the Earth 
to replicate mask I wear in the play. 

Assembling fractured memories of hope 
to concatenate my identity 
from tangled genes of psychic energy, 
I arrogate emergent property 
of my immortal spirit through my voice 
to channel desires into roles I play. 

My true ancestral self, which I create 
from stark necessity to survive fear, 
floats between mirrored aggression of fate, 
refracting psychic energy of love 
in pointillist portrait of my God Mind, 
and subtle reaction I play with verve. 

Mapping quick uncertainty principle 
with circling atoms of distorted truth, 
I measure vast awareness of my brain 
to locate my body on spinning Earth 
in relation to Sibyl in bright cave 
where ghosts of my ancestors call my name. 

The mad tarantula inside my brain 
navigates recessive canyons of hope 
with false sensation of electric laugh, 
so I flap my waxen wings of regret 
to prove I will not fall like Icarus 
when I steal faded laurel Phoebus wears. 

I will sing no hymns to royal-blood gods, 
nor kill Chimera couched beside my house, 
though I may mourn youth killed in senseless war 
with dirge at waste of wisdom for the state 
while his young bride grieves in the empty church 
where preachers charge ransom to save his soul. 

With honey bees in grove where Martin paints 
grand murals that depict our Golden Age, 
I sing our victory in the third world war 
when everything we value is destroyed, 
except the milk cow in sad field of wheat 
where no one is left to manage the farm.