Strange Sugar Of Memory

Strange Sugar Of Memory
© Surazeus
2023 04 21

When I taste strange sugar of memory 
at the last moment as morning explodes 
from tangled concept of the other self, 
I become this persona who must speak 
with alien voice of every unseen soul 
so you can recognize who I am not. 

Because our bodies are finite on Earth, 
awake with wondrous beauty of despair, 
we fuel our passion with aggressive angst 
through steadfast obsession to know the truth, 
which will dispel dark lies that blind our eyes, 
so we can survive long enough to live. 

Though I am fragile as the porcelain bowl 
that shines unused on glass museum shelf, 
I become tough grass that grows in the desert, 
happy to chat with turtles about rain 
and why we teach each other how to love 
before we vanish in the nevermore. 

I always find you in my favorite words 
so I speak about love with silent thought 
that captures fleeting passion of our souls 
to leave traces of our lives in blank books 
in dreams that portray who we really are 
as pulsing fragments of our beaming star. 

Your face becomes the moon I always see 
as we share feast at sacred festival 
without exchanging words we cherish most, 
uprooted though we are from motherlands 
to dwell half way around the spinning world 
in this secret home no one knows about. 

Together we achieve balance of growth 
between existence in mirrors of faith 
that preserve fleeting beauty of our life 
in peaceful quiet of our living room 
based on fragility of selfless love, 
contentious to stay on the prosperous way. 

Stuck deep in selective reality, 
where Death is veiled by television screen, 
I try to redesign mold of my mind 
so I can become more my secret self 
that only I can see in mirror eye 
though I stand in houseless door of all time. 

Though April is the cruelest month that breeds 
lilacs blooming in dooryard of my home 
I mourn not millions who die every day 
because more are born from the blazing star 
that frees our souls from shackles of state laws 
designed to exploit labor of our hands.