Honeycomb Of His Brain

Honeycomb Of His Brain
© Surazeus
2025 05 13

When Ziphion walks in village by the sea, 
as nameless stranger only passing through, 
shadow of each person he passes by 
whispers their secrets in numberless math 
which transform into honey bees of glass 
who swirl into honeycomb of his brain. 

Lured by warm scent from the old bakery, 
Ziphion gazes in green eyes of the woman 
who bakes his memories in loaf of rye bread, 
and when he eats it with butter and jam 
he relives the moment when he was twelve 
when he saw his mother fly to the clouds. 

Climbing steps between the two living lions, 
Ziphion enters library of dream books 
small as apple seeds that swell from his tears 
into huge dragons that roar out his name, 
demanding he wear mask of the dead god 
whose story is recorded in its text. 

Because he exudes different pungent scents 
each morning he wakes from the glass piano, 
rosewater, pine wood, salt air, honey, pear, 
Ziphion transforms into different versions 
of his true self no one has ever seen 
each time he wanders in the maze of streets. 

Wandering dreary streets in the river town, 
where rain falls only on the sorrowful, 
Ziphion studies his personal storm cloud 
that drenches him with tears of bitter hope 
while everyone else walks in bright sunlight, 
till he laughs at absurdity of fear. 

Pausing by pear tree with the human face, 
Ziphion stares at the blank book in his hand 
where red letters writhe with serpentine grace 
that record prophetic poems he once sang 
before he forgot them when he turned twelve, 
so he slowly removes his egg-shell mask. 

Dipping horse-hair brush in blood of their hearts, 
Ziphion paints portraits of people he meets, 
which age while they all stay forever young 
yet reveal emotional truths of faith 
they try to hide with laughter and good cheer 
while he goes swimming in the starless lake. 

When the moon descends in the Wishing Well 
where she transforms into dragon of words, 
Ziphion joins the untroubled villagers 
who draw silver coins from depths of despair 
which shimmer with their long-forgotten dreams 
that bleed songs from honey comb of his brain.