Fly Beyond Our Graves

Fly Beyond Our Graves
© Surazeus
2025 06 01

When I hold my face still for timeless truth 
history hangs my mask on the wall of souls 
so I can watch my descendants explore 
dream of this world for eighty thousand years 
while all their empires rise and fall in waves 
between tyranny and democracy. 

Unaverage hollow that fashions skull shapes 
reflects flesh of the morning star that molds 
souls of weird humans who search for the truth 
while walking cautiously on broken roads, 
yet stop before house of the rising sun 
where the blind girl invents language we speak. 

If I memorize promise of the land 
that curves wide with responsible respect 
I hope you find me more reliable 
than obsolete angels of paradise 
who hang as paper puppets from the wall, 
nameless ghosts of the sad psychiatrist. 

Death will not tolerate casual mistakes 
made by the Thought Machine with blinking eye 
whose truth anticipates conceptual faith 
based on assurance of the always-known 
contrived when Sirius rings the lonely bell 
because our world whirls in visions of words. 

Halfway along the signless road of everywhere 
we camp beside the lake of screaming fish, 
and tell each other stories of our lives 
while flames of eternity light our masks 
designed to replicate ancestral souls 
based on artificial intelligence. 

Drunk from liquor of peaches and mushrooms, 
I search for my infant on the white moon 
who hides in shadow of the window ghost 
to preserve family heirlooms in her heart 
till they sprout into swan-angelic wings 
so she grows into the woman who knows. 

Black horses race across the gloom of fate 
to cast eyes of stone in the church graveyard 
where the Turnstone ponders how waves play chase 
because star of silence possesses me 
with psychic stillness of the photograph 
which preserves my soul long after I die. 

Since death is not the walls of paradise, 
I teach the children in the school of dreams 
how to translate old songs of wind and rain 
to cheerful laughter of innocent love 
we share as family in temple of books 
that spread their wings and fly beyond our graves.