Ghosts On Floating Bridge Of Light
© Surazeus
2018 08 12
No matter where I go in the real world,
solidified by endless streams of sunlight,
which beam substance of my succulent brain
into meadows of mud where trees stretch tall,
I am followed by ghosts of my ancestors
who illuminate the time of each place.
Each time I step through shadow of some ghost
I shimmer between being and nothingness,
which stretches my spirit across all time
so I thread infinity into now,
and remember each moment of their lives
when they dreamed alive time on timeless plain.
The ghost of each ancestor I respect
dissolves the border between being alive
with intricate puzzles of clicking atoms
at this generic place I am this hour
which jolts electric knowledge of my power
that my molecules will transform to flowers.
Emerging from gaunt tree on plain of wind,
my great-grandmother touches my forehead
and explains how the ghost of her lost soul
explicates architecture of the storm
that crackles lightning from her turning eyes
to reveal chemical structure of brains.
The house where she lived on the river shore
deep in Desolation Canyon in Utah,
still whispering with her voice inside my head,
replicates architecture of my brain
so she lives forever inside my bones
to animate how my fingers spell dreams.
The whistler of the light who chases rain
slips between the white space of truth I know
so my question about meaning of life
reveals nothing when the raven of sorrow
hatches from the fragile egg of the world
since frost whorling my eyes reveals her face.
The open door opens when I breathe light
since strange glow in the mirror of my heart
swirls shadows of memory from open eyes
of all my ancestors who become feathers
on wings I employ to dance in moonlight
and become the ghosts of their mute desires.
Each ghost appears when synapses spark white
to flash my hair into moonlight that streams
in every river winding from high peak
of singing mountains who know my real name
when light from my face refracts to reveal
faces of all my ancestors no one sees.
I reach out my hand of ice to touch face
of myself so I know I might be real
when father of my father of my father
sings hymns of the Great Father in the Sky
who watches me perform role of my life,
all their ghosts congealed in omniscient God.
When the mirror of the universe breaks
I gasp awake from weird dream of creation
and feel him everywhere in shining air
projected from consciousness of my brain
which beams radio signals into blue sky
that reflects my own face back down at me.
I dwell in this lonely ghost house I built
from the bones of every ancestral soul
who glow with the architecture of storm
which structures how rooms of memories flow
through contours of history where they walked slow
to discover source of light on wild field.
How many disused and forgotten roads
where houses of ghosts once waited in wind
now shimmer paved with asphalt of dark hope
where living people drive cars to the house
but stand surprised to see the open door
open into lost memories of their hearts?
We gather in the field behind the house,
inviting our ghosts to join us in song,
so under our small shimmering summer star
we give voice to the mute folk of our hearts
that moss-covered stones where their names are carved
beat alive with strange memories they forgot.
The ghost of the one I loved long ago
is the emptiness of their being I ache for,
so everywhere I go their emptiness
follows me on the kite string of my love,
swallowing despair and beaming back joy
that their energy sparkles in my atoms.
I see only the ghosts of my ancestors
with the clear eyes of memory and love,
yet I see in halo of glowing light
ghosts of every nameless person I meet
shining from the flash of their dreaming eyes
to guide them in expression of their souls.
Our ghosts swirl around us in vital breath
of ethereal air that animates sense
of our brains to perceive weird atmosphere
long visible, though early morning mist
reflects the unseen star of their desires
when we meet on the floating bridge of light.
© Surazeus
2018 08 12
No matter where I go in the real world,
solidified by endless streams of sunlight,
which beam substance of my succulent brain
into meadows of mud where trees stretch tall,
I am followed by ghosts of my ancestors
who illuminate the time of each place.
Each time I step through shadow of some ghost
I shimmer between being and nothingness,
which stretches my spirit across all time
so I thread infinity into now,
and remember each moment of their lives
when they dreamed alive time on timeless plain.
The ghost of each ancestor I respect
dissolves the border between being alive
with intricate puzzles of clicking atoms
at this generic place I am this hour
which jolts electric knowledge of my power
that my molecules will transform to flowers.
Emerging from gaunt tree on plain of wind,
my great-grandmother touches my forehead
and explains how the ghost of her lost soul
explicates architecture of the storm
that crackles lightning from her turning eyes
to reveal chemical structure of brains.
The house where she lived on the river shore
deep in Desolation Canyon in Utah,
still whispering with her voice inside my head,
replicates architecture of my brain
so she lives forever inside my bones
to animate how my fingers spell dreams.
The whistler of the light who chases rain
slips between the white space of truth I know
so my question about meaning of life
reveals nothing when the raven of sorrow
hatches from the fragile egg of the world
since frost whorling my eyes reveals her face.
The open door opens when I breathe light
since strange glow in the mirror of my heart
swirls shadows of memory from open eyes
of all my ancestors who become feathers
on wings I employ to dance in moonlight
and become the ghosts of their mute desires.
Each ghost appears when synapses spark white
to flash my hair into moonlight that streams
in every river winding from high peak
of singing mountains who know my real name
when light from my face refracts to reveal
faces of all my ancestors no one sees.
I reach out my hand of ice to touch face
of myself so I know I might be real
when father of my father of my father
sings hymns of the Great Father in the Sky
who watches me perform role of my life,
all their ghosts congealed in omniscient God.
When the mirror of the universe breaks
I gasp awake from weird dream of creation
and feel him everywhere in shining air
projected from consciousness of my brain
which beams radio signals into blue sky
that reflects my own face back down at me.
I dwell in this lonely ghost house I built
from the bones of every ancestral soul
who glow with the architecture of storm
which structures how rooms of memories flow
through contours of history where they walked slow
to discover source of light on wild field.
How many disused and forgotten roads
where houses of ghosts once waited in wind
now shimmer paved with asphalt of dark hope
where living people drive cars to the house
but stand surprised to see the open door
open into lost memories of their hearts?
We gather in the field behind the house,
inviting our ghosts to join us in song,
so under our small shimmering summer star
we give voice to the mute folk of our hearts
that moss-covered stones where their names are carved
beat alive with strange memories they forgot.
The ghost of the one I loved long ago
is the emptiness of their being I ache for,
so everywhere I go their emptiness
follows me on the kite string of my love,
swallowing despair and beaming back joy
that their energy sparkles in my atoms.
I see only the ghosts of my ancestors
with the clear eyes of memory and love,
yet I see in halo of glowing light
ghosts of every nameless person I meet
shining from the flash of their dreaming eyes
to guide them in expression of their souls.
Our ghosts swirl around us in vital breath
of ethereal air that animates sense
of our brains to perceive weird atmosphere
long visible, though early morning mist
reflects the unseen star of their desires
when we meet on the floating bridge of light.
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