Concept Of His Ghost

Concept Of His Ghost
© Surazeus
2024 07 31

While lingering under the oak by the lake, 
watching the hawk circle the world she rules, 
I realize I am standing on the grave 
where my father lies buried in my heart, 
so I attempt to photograph the wind, 
thinking it must old concept of his ghost. 

All my ancestors who have lived and died 
over the past four hundred million years 
were generated in maternal womb 
with matter from fruit of the tree she ate, 
and now their bodies form soil of the Earth 
so I walk on them wherever I go. 

I have no memory of arriving here 
after millions of years of life and death, 
yet here I am, brain programmed to perceive 
things that exist with precision of form, 
so I know well how to hide from the storm 
while I savor sweetness of being alive. 

Driven by anxiety to survive, 
I ask the dead to not forget my name, 
but they are walking on the signless road 
far beyond where boundary of the state ends, 
so I confront disappointment of joy 
with weird frankness of honest turbulence. 

Though the work of living is difficult, 
tracking new treasures in the wilderness, 
I press my case for justice of desire, 
but the Glow Cloud that I mistook for God 
gazes down at me with paternal eyes, 
telescopes through which I perceive the world. 

This city is my home inside my heart 
where I disappear in its changing maze 
because my father left me psychic map 
I use to journey to the Promised Land, 
distorted by reality we share, 
abrupt with artificial face I wear. 

Should I intuit fate I gamble for 
to explain my failures in game of life, 
then I could reshape symmetry of mind 
as balance between the woods and the school 
because the obvious secret of success 
is how I redesign the obstacle. 

The person in the tale is never me 
because I breathe celestial air of faith 
while I strum lyre of Mercury and sing 
about my father by the fountain pool 
who tries to explain how it all should be, 
encoded in the concept of his ghost.