While Sadness Walks

While Sadness Walks
© Surazeus
2023 04 17

If the dead leave music behind then why 
do I not hear their voices in the wind? 
While Sadness walks back from the grocery store 
she calls the Bitter Captain on the phone 
but he is standing outside empty church 
giving apples to devils for their guns. 

If the rose I carry steals my true name 
how will the dead call me back to the sea? 
When Sadness runs with wolves in lonely woods 
she sneers at blind god on the mountain peak 
while tearing hate from language by its roots 
so we can grow vines from our rotten hearts. 

If the Oracle of Delphi calls Death 
how will I know the fortune of my fate? 
While Sadness writes love letter to my ghost 
she teaches me weird secrets of the sea 
so I can learn to walk in surging tide 
then blaze ten thousand roads around the Earth. 

If the bridge leads me across the abyss 
will I transform from ape to Superman? 
While Sadness teaches me to measure curves 
she ignores the moon that bleeds in my soul 
with familiar cold of infinity, 
desperate to find shelter in time of war. 

If time surrounds me with desire to love 
how can the dead show me how to live well? 
While Sadness waits for rain that never falls 
she remembers joke the Grim Jester tells 
to fool billions with the beautiful lie 
that faith will resurrect us from the dead. 

If geography is scripture of truth 
then why does consciousness disperse at death? 
While Sadness follows light to Paradise 
she writes our stories in dust of the road 
for all our memories vanish from the world 
unless we encode them in sad folk songs. 

If our stories preserve our mortal souls 
then why are we masked with faces of gods? 
While Sadness tends beehives of secret love 
she writes lost letters with blood to the dead, 
framed by the window of her finite mind, 
about how rivers flow from broken hearts. 

If God exists outside my conscious mind 
why am I only me and no one else? 
While Sadness raises children from her heart 
she teaches them how to describe the dead 
with stories birds sing sixty million years 
till I translate them into cryptic verse.