Yet People Still Flee Bombs

Yet People Still Flee Bombs
© Surazeus
2023 08 08

When ladders bloom from television screens 
I play glass piano on blue sand dunes 
while acrobats perform astounding feats 
if ten thousand horses play fractured flutes, 
yet people still flee bombs that blast their homes, 
searching for Elysium where Saturn roams. 

When sparrows leap from alabaster wells 
I follow flapping wings down sun-dark halls 
in maze of Dream World on heaven-lost stairs 
to measure psychic radiance of eye balls, 
yet people still flee bombs that blast their homes, 
lost in paradise of ecstatic gnomes. 

When camels prance ballet in church of ghosts 
I slice mauve carrots for puzzling forecasts 
to navigate doctrines of frozen mosques 
where sons of Saturn wear electric masks, 
yet people still flee bombs that blast their homes, 
programmed by strange memories of chromosomes. 

When sailboats float from gauze cathedral roofs 
I paint great heroes into photographs 
with ghosts of characters in chuckling books 
not quite irrelevant to gorgeous facts, 
yet people still flee bombs that blast their homes, 
trapped by social justice in palindromes. 

When jesters wearing business suits count skulls 
I mint conceptual coins from floating bells 
with up so ardent hymns of vampire cults 
though Angels conquer Raven Woods of Celts, 
yet people still flee bombs that blast their homes, 
sheltered in camps along concentric streams. 

When prophets carve riddles in pearly gates 
I translate graceful curves of river boats 
to mirror virtual world of word dreamscapes 
through shocking revelation of false hopes, 
yet people still flee bombs that blast their homes, 
misinformed by truth of prophetic dreams. 

When devils play chess on sad ocean shores 
I figure blueprints for cathedral cars 
which elves construct from gold dinosaur bones 
since vestal virgins pray for blazing dawns, 
yet people still flee bombs that blast their homes, 
inspired to dance by radioactive beams. 

When angels sew new wings from fairy bats 
I map ten thousand years of martial glitz 
when my ancestors invade fertile lands 
in vain attempt to harness divine winds, 
yet people still flee bombs that blast their homes, 
organized by Paul Celan in choir teams.