Eyes Of Flaming Stars

Eyes Of Flaming Stars
© Surazeus
2025 08 23

Almost forgotten in the hour of moons, 
six thousand years of battle for the land, 
the nameless child with eyes of flaming stars 
picks fruit from trees along the river shore 
and sells them in the market of desire 
where God sits on ziggurat of the eye. 

I dream this waking vision of the past 
after the truck crashes into my car 
while I lie paralyzed on red asphalt 
and watch history of wars play on the cloud 
when men kill men to control fertile land 
embodied by women who create life. 

Strapped to the gurney of bold innocence, 
I wonder at miracle of the car 
propelled by piston engine of desire 
that zooms through spiraling tunnel of time 
with eerie demonic wails of rectitude 
past parks where families picnic without fear. 

Uncertain about the future event, 
we wait for hummingbirds to bring the news 
that we are trapped in fake contingencies 
defined by conditions of providence 
required by law to state false messages 
painted on the Grecian Urn of romance. 

Since no one hears the sweet nightingale sing, 
except in fantasy novels of fate, 
I open fridge door of curious angst 
to find spoiled memories, rotten with faith, 
so I eat sorrow of the fallen god 
who shouts that he is still Hyperion. 

Though I die for beauty with arrogance 
I will not stay adjusted in the tomb 
next to the tragic clown who dies for truth 
yet seeks to solve the social mystery 
that pervades angry well of honesty 
because I cannot simplify her ghost. 

Related somehow to the maybe soon, 
mute with timidity of haunted homes, 
I ask the grass about nature of man 
as she emerges from soil of the Earth, 
but she refuses to explain the why 
encoding formulas that measure fate. 

When she insists with velvet-tender voice 
that hope is strange invention of the weak, 
I run with fierce embellishment of faith 
through tuned momentum of angelic form 
in unremitting action that adjusts 
stiff attitudes in men afraid of death.