Fane Of Phoebus

Fane Of Phoebus
© Surazeus
2023 09 07

The fane he built two centuries ago 
in dark untrodden region of his mind 
still lurks in grove of pines by lulling stream 
where trellis of his vanished mind now leans 
hung thick with vines of grapes no angels eat, 
but Phoebus sings no more heart-aching odes. 

No more on bedded grass by sparkling stream 
amid calm-breathing flowers of loyal faith 
lies Psyche with her flighty winged lover 
for they were driven from dark haunted woods 
by rumbling machines that uproot old trees 
for men to erect towers of steel and glass. 

Pale-mouthed with lucent dreams of paradise, 
I try to sing sweet ode in midnight hours 
that eulogize sweet goddess of my heart, 
but moan with wordless anguish of despair 
to see Elysian fields where Dryads danced 
bulldozed by iron jaws of hungry greed. 

Where flowers, silver-white and fragrant-eyed, 
long bloom from corpses of warriors and kings, 
after they destroy each other through wars, 
now pavement parking lot radiating heat 
bears rubber tires of piston-engine cars 
each tender eye-dawn of aurorean love. 

Now silent in grave with tombstone that reads, 
here lies mute fool whose name was writ in water, 
starry-eyed Phoebus, who sang hymns of truth, 
joins that faded hierarchy of Olympus 
whose fall he chanted in short epic tale, 
and rots with Hyperion in pungent soil. 

Beside his grave in ruins of ancient fane 
I strum strings on old lyre of Mercury 
and sing about his quest to transcend Death 
through climbing steep Parnassus to engage 
blind prophet singing of paradise lost 
because we eat fruit from the Tree of Knowledge. 

Whether I sing about hundreds of heroes 
who express secret hopes with lyric voice, 
or sing about my own quest to find truth 
concealed as essence in material things, 
I play role of persona I create 
for my brief hour on empty stage of faith. 

Fooled by the Gardener Fancy with trick 
displayed by sapphire-regioned star of fate, 
I sing long epic tale of social heroes 
with lyre of Mercury in fane of Phoebus, 
till I too will lie buried in tree roots, 
and my water-written name disappear.