Abandoned Farm Of Priapus

Abandoned Farm Of Priapus
© Surazeus
2022 12 17

Still alive in lush garden by the sea 
for three thousand years of conceptual love, 
Priapus gazes in the shining pool 
and sees beyond shadow mask of his face 
the white bird fly across the silver sky 
that shimmers with skeleton of the cloud. 

In tangled wood of our perplexities 
for three thousand years of anxiety 
Priapus digs his hands in stinking soil 
to generate nutritious crops of food 
with every passing season of desire 
for we are trees who dance beneath the clouds. 

Imperfect beauty of our hungry bodies 
for three thousand years of regeneration 
Priapus admires with ferocious love 
that transcends all silent abuse of power 
so pool of wisdom is stirred by our breath 
when we seek answers in its murky depth. 

Amazed at transitory shapes of clouds 
for three thousand years of dynamic weather, 
Priapus grasps at fluid memories 
that eddy through billions of human brains 
from misty chasms of psychotic faith 
to weave our hopes in woof of one world view. 

Stumbling among clutter of sprawling cities 
for three thousand years they infest the Earth, 
Priapus searches for paradise lost 
under global networks of asphalt roads 
that link industrial maze of factories 
through stores selling beauty in packages. 

Death broods under the yellow winter moon 
for three thousand years of solemn despair 
as empires rise and fall in waves of war 
that soak farm fields along rivers with blood 
to fertilize new seasons of rich crops 
processed in packages of food we eat. 

Clutching faceless pumpkin with trembling hands 
for three thousand years of heartrending prayer, 
Priapus cries out to angels in Heaven, 
those wispy swirls of mist in mindless clouds, 
so they weep torrents of indignant rain 
that drench city streets with terror of death. 

Listening to hoot of the star-eyed owl 
for three thousand years of failed prophecies, 
Priapus calculates sullen despair 
that chains hearts of humanity with fear 
when tyrants send soldiers to holy wars 
in bloody battles over fields of wheat. 

Opening shattered door of ruined church 
for three thousand years of greedy crusades, 
Priapus returns to abandoned farm 
where Ceres raises wheat with bleeding hands 
to celebrate sad victory of world war 
at birth of his son on midwinter eve. 

Bearing platter with vegetables and fruits 
for three thousand years at the solstice feast, 
Priapus welcomes refugees of war 
to shelter haven of his generous heart, 
so they drink to building prosperous farms 
on ruins of cathedrals and factories.