Salty Tears Of Dead Angels

Salty Tears Of Dead Angels
© Surazeus
2019 03 05

Kneeling before the lost Fountain of Youth, 
I drink salty tears of dead angels stained 
red with blood of strawberries. Butterflies 
steal forgotten memories we tried to hide 
in books we stole from deserted libraries 
without windows. I cannot see your soul 
though I stare in cracked mirror long enough 
to experience the complete life and death 
of every conscious creature ever born. 
I wander rooms of your houses forlorn. 

Receding infinitely backward, small 
as gleaming fragments of bomb-shattered windows, 
I disappear into mirror of faces 
to be you. Step into my fragile boat, 
I carved from laughing oak trees, and relax 
while we escape armies of men with guns 
who hate us. We sold them apples last year 
but now they burn our orchard in revenge 
for losing the last game of chess with death. 
I stand invisible within your breath. 

Always slipping away between grim shadows 
of blind rage, fueled by greed for fertile land, 
we wander signless roads to distant towns 
as refugees from another world war 
to visit the museum of fine art. 
Each classic painting of the long-dead god 
was smeared with blood from refugees shot dead 
by nationalist heroes. Now they are statues 
erected in gold above our crushed skulls. 
Now we can list more achievable goals. 

Each apple seed that shimmers in my hand 
contains photographs of all nameless people 
killed in wars the past hundred thousand years 
since God came to Earth. He stands on high hill 
of divine authority to command 
thoughtless obedience to his cult of power. 
We hide in the cave where shadows reveal 
changeless pattern of nothing that is real 
except this mask we wear to hide despair. 
I secretly rule the world from my lair. 

When every poet who has lived before me 
gathers in the Grand Canyon just at dawn, 
I hide in beams of sunlight to become 
sponge of my brain that soaks their dreams like rain 
of laughing nonsense. Each puzzling concept 
cut from their tongues I assemble in sphere 
of flickering tubes to reconstruct cathedral 
where hungry people gather to eat mushrooms 
and dream creation of our universe. 
I hide love blessings in prophetic curse. 

Naked at midnight, I walk busy highway 
to weave hallucinations through fake songs 
in throbbing brains of honest worshippers 
who seek eternal life. I open gate 
to Heaven where I play harp of taut nerves 
woven from neurons of our rotting brains 
to tease them with the resurrection lie. 
On empty highways ten billion cars rust 
in rain that nourishes new apple trees. 
The Grand Canyon is filled with your house keys.