Pyramid Of The Mad King

Pyramid Of The Mad King
© Surazeus
2023 12 19

The sun casts visions on page of my book 
depicting stream of scenes where I must look 
with anguished eyes at the suffering and pain 
humans stuck in history endure in vain 
to build vast empires through fascist control 
that thrive when everyone plays their strict role. 

As helmets of warriors marching in file 
flash with fires of burning homes every mile, 
they follow Ares on tall prancing horse 
who searches in vain for the divine source 
of global power that slips from frail hand 
of every mad king clutching at dry land. 

The scythe-wheeled chariot of desire rolls 
on crowded highway of lost nameless souls 
past blood-stained pyramid of the mad king 
who struts about with tattered angel wing 
he stole from Michael to become the beast 
whose heart is sacrificed for the grand feast. 

Yet Pallas steals the sword that Dido used 
when she ran in the naked streets, confused 
at why great hero with eyes blind from fate 
abandoned her outside the Pearly Gate 
to find his destiny across the sea 
in land of the brave and home of the free. 

So Child of Aphrodite on the beach 
searches for the lame prophet who can teach 
secret code of the alphabet which seals 
psychic energy through wood wagon wheels 
in order to weave tapestry of truth 
presenting life of world messiah sleuth. 

Though we ride cows on journey to the west 
through repetition of our ancient quest, 
we never find the fertile Promised Land 
where angels on flat pyramids may stand 
to guard lush paradise from immigrants 
though they are paragons of innocence. 

The serpent coiled in cypress tree of faith 
reveals origin story of the wraith 
who was young princess in gold palace hall 
painting hieroglyphs on vast history wall 
to show how Helius drove chariot of light 
in war against cruel demons of the night. 

For sweet Juturna is the bride I choose, 
that humble gardener who can read my clues 
as church bells ring across the Sabbath hour 
till she awakes in high room of the tower 
where she searches for my face in her dreams 
hidden behind time-changing mask of seems. 

Though Father Time stands on a mountain peak 
and waits for the terrified seer to speak, 
I know that time unravels webs of brains 
so conscious souls that vanish in hard rains 
may sing with poignant passion to enjoy 
opulent feasts we used to hold in Troy. 

I follow trail where my ancestors strode 
the opposite way to name every road 
that leads me back home to land of the strange 
hidden deep in Tian Shan Mountain Range 
where I first ate ripe apple of the sun 
and joined with horses on their wind-swift run. 

Grand cities of stone, shining on high hills, 
that I construct with bleeding swords and quills, 
organize lost refugees from world wars 
into priests and merchants who manage stores, 
but tyrants ruin everything we build, 
and promises of peace go unfulfilled. 

I find no secrets in old epic tales 
for every human experiment fails, 
yet we work to sustain democracies, 
against fascist greed of strong monarchies, 
that rule justice and liberty for all, 
so I cleanse my soul in the waterfall.