Preaching To The Choir

Preaching To The Choir
© Surazeus
2024 10 29

Preaching to the choir in the hall of mirrors, 
the man with eight arms and ten thousand heads 
explains that true love flowing from the heart 
is to care for someone with calm respect 
regardless of how they feel about you, 
then he shares mango ice cream with his wife. 

Sleepwalking in the ancient maze of myths, 
the man who prefers to photograph rivers 
investigates why wild geyser of time 
was gutted by force of conceptual speed 
by waterfalls in deep canyon of lies 
where last king in the world wears paper mask. 

Folding his soul in margin of the dream, 
the man with severe kaleidoscope eyes 
studies nature of the thing-in-itself 
to consider why we regurgitate 
anthems of christian capitalist pride 
in boisterous rallies on island of garbage. 

Jumping over the fence of loyal fear, 
the man with the pince-nez blinding his eye 
calls Mad Jester on the telephone 
that eats silver spoons in the crowded church 
till everyone understands they were fooled 
by Fake King who claims he turns things to gold. 

Meeting with the only woman he loves, 
the man with the heart like the leaky boat 
asks trees on the mountain of singing skulls 
why they still admire the arrogant bear, 
but they explain art is detectable 
since it wakes god-eye of absurdity. 

Evoking turbulent ghosts of weird faith, 
the man who holds paintbrush dripping with blood 
spawns language in muddy waters of truth 
to conceal tormented soul of his grace, 
then lays perverse order of votive signs 
in line with permanent flowers of death. 

Lighting candle in cathedral of glass, 
the man discolored by snapshot of his mind 
declares from node in the continuum 
his name is Adam, first man of the Earth, 
face silhouetted on Cliffs of Despair, 
yet follows his own footprints in the snow. 

Unlocking changeless forms of the world, 
the man who wears paper face of the moon 
judges absence of color indicates 
refreshing atonement for standard sins 
described in cubist diary of the brook 
that trickles in the fractured hall of mirrors.