Dig Up Statue Of Phoebus

Dig Up Statue Of Phoebus
© Surazeus
2025 07 06

Awake in waste land of prophets and fools, 
who sing hallelujah to empty skies, 
I climb the mountain of the burning bush 
with lantern of wisdom in curious hand 
to find the temple of the weeping god 
who never seems to remember my name. 

Honest laughter of the tear-fractured stone 
echoes wildly weird in the hollow land, 
so I draw map on the world in white sand 
to contemplate strict rules of leadership 
that greedy oligarchs never consult 
while I play chess with the crocodile god. 

Delicate petals of the Hawthorne tree 
lure me to backyard of the crumbling church 
to dig up statue of Phoebus from mud 
so I can ask him for meaning of life, 
but he just stares beyond eternity 
to prove our souls are temporary flames. 

Though I get lost in labyrinth of lies 
while searching for the secret Promised Land, 
I find the Tree of Knowledge by the cave 
where emaciated ghosts of mining slaves 
follow enchanting music of my lyre 
to sit weeping under the apple tree. 

The serpent eye in the mirror of truth 
reflects timeless snow of forgetfulness 
that shrouds broken skulls of warriors and kings 
in Elysian fields where hyacinth blooms 
but conceals scorpions of arrogant faith 
who preach salvation of the weeping god. 

Through telescope of formulated truth 
I see every star in the universe 
that ever swirls from energy of hope 
so I can trace trajectory of fate 
which prophets calculate with measured words 
when mirror of our world view fragmentates. 

Fired by rebirth of wonder in the world, 
I walk across the waste land of the mind 
with American-Eagle wings of my heart 
to navigate Age of Anxiety 
with lantern Diogenes gave to me, 
then play God on your television screen. 

Since faith imperils my intrusive heart 
with cultural artifacts designed by faith, 
I baptize my ghost in the River Styx 
when Minerva crowns me King of Nowhere, 
then we eat hamburgers in the backyard 
to celebrate rise of Zarathia.