Ziphion Spiral Starchild

Ziphion Spiral Starchild
© Surazeus
2025 05 10

While Steve fixes broke engine of the truck 
in cold garage beside the busy road 
he feels spiral starchild bloom in his heart 
from eerie melody of crystal flutes, 
so he calls the River Walker by name 
who sprinkles sugar of faith in his eyes. 

Glass tower grows moist mouth that sings in bells 
with bronze tongue wounding adamantine hearts, 
so Steve walks curling streets of fettered smoke 
when River Walker names him Ziphion 
though boots dissolve in mirrors made of wax 
that seal his vampire soul in grave of gears. 

Yet spiral starchild in the weeping tree 
plays glass violin with serpentine hands 
till apple eyes swirl from the Burning Bush 
since River Walker sings in clockspring squeals 
with breath of parchment etched by dancing hooves 
despite untime deflashing fountain pools. 

When Ocean Woman carved from salt gives birth 
to fierce angelic wind of screaming caves, 
she names him Zephyr with the flaking spine 
as son of Ziphion who plays violin 
since he unzips his skin and steps aside 
to eat the peach inside the singing sun. 

Because Ziphion spiral starchild drinks 
gold ink of human dreams from open hands, 
flash flood of vowels soaks his crumbling jaw 
till they grow wings and nest inside his skull, 
so alphabet of lies transforms to beast 
that blinks in colors he could never name. 

With hands of candelight amused by death 
Ziphion builds cathedral of weird fate 
from muddy stained-glass lungs of coral blue 
so love blooms from womb of the chandelier 
as saint with antlers twisted from bomb ash 
who drinks ink from books he would never write. 

With spider legs the moon on legal spires 
undances back through wind of fractured eyes, 
then breaks her back and scatters into bells 
that ring deep in my bones as nameless gods 
comprised of paper bees in tolling veins 
when Zephyr swallows fake paternal mask. 

When Ziphion meets his alter ego Steve, 
trapped in glass mannequin of silver smoke, 
he gives bread and wine to poor hungry folk 
who sleep inside warm chapel of his chest, 
then drinks sweet dusk of honest marigolds 
to find the streets of fame have learned to speak.