Uproot Burning Bush

Uproot Burning Bush
© Surazeus
2025 08 29

Grief lifts torn wings and screams at nothingness 
with voice of every soul that every lived 
to wake god of the dead from rotten soil, 
so I stride busy market street at dawn 
to buy delicious loaf of butter cake 
then sit and eat with ginger hot chocolate. 

Despair unleashes fear-sharp falcon claws 
to tear at pulsing veil of earnestness 
that rends corpses of gods from our mute hearts, 
so I browse pretty books of poetry 
in the quaint bookstore by the flower shop 
where Alette reads fairytales to young children. 

Transforming from rose to owl back to girl, 
Alette drifts slowly through the teeming crowd 
of people swarming in the shopping mall 
to find the Tyrant with the heart of steel 
so she can uproot burning bush of hate, 
arresting his coup to control the world. 

When shy Alette with leap of innocence 
descends to underworld of howling ghosts, 
she walks with quiet pace of God far west 
to drag down mountains from the fractured sky 
and scatter apple seeds in muddy creeks 
that sprout into radios with happy songs. 

Black storm clouds wander blithely over hills 
where old wood houses lurk in yellow grass 
to hide from dusty roads that stumble lost 
past moaning oak trees crowded with blind crows 
despite desire that fuels my aching heart 
to catch bitter sparks of rain with my hands. 

Cautiously stepping along the rain-worn fence, 
Alette shines flashlight in eyes of the owl 
that flicks its ears with warning of the fall, 
so she looks down to see coiled rattlesnake 
sleeping peacefully on grave of her god, 
so she turns and flies away on swan wings. 

Calling out to lost people of the land, 
Alette weeps for all those she could not save, 
so they walk to school and sit at bone desks 
in bright fluorescent-lit classrooms of grief 
to carve devil runes on door of the church 
always locked with the deadbolt of discourse. 

The oldest woman in the world, with eyes 
bright as diamonds buried billions of years, 
gives slices of cake to lonely travelers 
who stop for a rest in temple of skulls 
to ask Orpheus if he knows the way, 
but he just smiles frail as the butterfly.