Dead Angels Sing
© Surazeus
2018 03 16
The word in the window, the laughing cloud,
pavement of the signless road to my heart,
without the door to the shadowed room, locked
against the agony of broken wings.
I stop my ears to hear how angels sing
but numbers crash in waves on stoic rocks.
Nothing known, hidden in the pageless book
no one ever opens, so windowsills
glow when strangers decide to return home,
but woods divert the way to paradise.
The voice from the sky, who calls my name,
reminds me to learn why the angels sing.
The angel with no hands, the haughty horse
with no eyes, the tree with no apples, sky
with no sun spread deep into my blood veins,
because I find the last seed in the world.
The face behind the mask makes angels sing
based on pictures I scratch in the beach sand.
Cracked mirror on the cliff, indifferent wind,
the man waving a big stick, threatening to crush
my head like the egg of the serpent witch,
so I offer him the poisonous fruit.
Wandering on forever in somewhere city,
I stand in ruins to hear angels sing.
Listless by the window, the word of light,
because the last flight to paradise crashed
into the two towers of Jesus and Satan,
if I will write new Bible for our times.
Nobody can hear the dead angels sing
in the empty church by the shopping mall.
Lost by the laughing sea, the tattered map
stuck in the Tree of the Knowledge of Good
and Evil, the blind clown who rules the world,
the tarnished mask discarded in the gutter.
Who stands in the cathedral door at dawn,
laughing at the fool who hears angels sing?
The apple mottled with blood in my hand,
the crackle of gunfire echoing in woods,
the gleaming sun in the spiritless sky
indifferent to my existence, or hope.
My brain explodes with the meaning of life
when I make believe I hear angels sing.
The blind bard of Ireland with broken harp
sends Aisling to strike lightning in my brain,
so I nurse noble sense of tragedy
to sustain my soul during bouts of joy.
On the machine I tape how angels sing
which plays back nothing but voice of the wind.
The face in the mirror in empty room,
the shadow of her memory on the grass,
the echo of her voice in silent night,
the flame of her spirit snuffed out by rain.
I stare at photograph without her face,
which reveals lost secrets that angels sing.
The tree by the river painting the moon
with blood of children, the bombs blasting homes,
the olive tree burned black, the fluffy kitten
huddling among broken stones and crushed skulls.
I walk among shelves of books in libraries
that record oracles dead angels sing.
The laughing skull of Hamlet by the mirror,
the key that cannot open any door,
the name no one speaks, the silver moonlight
revealing the way through the maze of eyes.
The faceless woman by a coconut tree
refuses to explain why angels sing.
In the middle of nowhere red flowers bloom
from cracked skulls of children killed in world wars,
nine horses graze on hills where apples fall,
and I disappear into book of words.
The oldest woman in the world designs
garden of fruit where the dead angels sing.
© Surazeus
2018 03 16
The word in the window, the laughing cloud,
pavement of the signless road to my heart,
without the door to the shadowed room, locked
against the agony of broken wings.
I stop my ears to hear how angels sing
but numbers crash in waves on stoic rocks.
Nothing known, hidden in the pageless book
no one ever opens, so windowsills
glow when strangers decide to return home,
but woods divert the way to paradise.
The voice from the sky, who calls my name,
reminds me to learn why the angels sing.
The angel with no hands, the haughty horse
with no eyes, the tree with no apples, sky
with no sun spread deep into my blood veins,
because I find the last seed in the world.
The face behind the mask makes angels sing
based on pictures I scratch in the beach sand.
Cracked mirror on the cliff, indifferent wind,
the man waving a big stick, threatening to crush
my head like the egg of the serpent witch,
so I offer him the poisonous fruit.
Wandering on forever in somewhere city,
I stand in ruins to hear angels sing.
Listless by the window, the word of light,
because the last flight to paradise crashed
into the two towers of Jesus and Satan,
if I will write new Bible for our times.
Nobody can hear the dead angels sing
in the empty church by the shopping mall.
Lost by the laughing sea, the tattered map
stuck in the Tree of the Knowledge of Good
and Evil, the blind clown who rules the world,
the tarnished mask discarded in the gutter.
Who stands in the cathedral door at dawn,
laughing at the fool who hears angels sing?
The apple mottled with blood in my hand,
the crackle of gunfire echoing in woods,
the gleaming sun in the spiritless sky
indifferent to my existence, or hope.
My brain explodes with the meaning of life
when I make believe I hear angels sing.
The blind bard of Ireland with broken harp
sends Aisling to strike lightning in my brain,
so I nurse noble sense of tragedy
to sustain my soul during bouts of joy.
On the machine I tape how angels sing
which plays back nothing but voice of the wind.
The face in the mirror in empty room,
the shadow of her memory on the grass,
the echo of her voice in silent night,
the flame of her spirit snuffed out by rain.
I stare at photograph without her face,
which reveals lost secrets that angels sing.
The tree by the river painting the moon
with blood of children, the bombs blasting homes,
the olive tree burned black, the fluffy kitten
huddling among broken stones and crushed skulls.
I walk among shelves of books in libraries
that record oracles dead angels sing.
The laughing skull of Hamlet by the mirror,
the key that cannot open any door,
the name no one speaks, the silver moonlight
revealing the way through the maze of eyes.
The faceless woman by a coconut tree
refuses to explain why angels sing.
In the middle of nowhere red flowers bloom
from cracked skulls of children killed in world wars,
nine horses graze on hills where apples fall,
and I disappear into book of words.
The oldest woman in the world designs
garden of fruit where the dead angels sing.
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