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Thursday, September 4, 2025

Broken Angel Wings

Broken Angel Wings
© Surazeus
2025 09 04

Or we can flap our broken angel wings 
and pretend we can soar high among clouds 
despite heavy stone of sorrowing pain 
that chains our clumsy bodies to the ground, 
because we must accept limits of flesh 
that weaves our spirits in the cosmic mesh. 

My frail grandmother carves and polishes 
new pair of eyes from marble of despair 
so I can see the real world as it is, 
composed of atoms swerving in the void 
instead of manifestations of forms 
based on eternal ideas of thought. 

Avoiding competitions for world fame 
that trap the human with gold mask of god, 
I wander lonely as the glowing cloud 
with golden hordes of dancing daffodils 
to strum the holy lyre of Mercury 
and sing to stones and trees on mountain slopes. 

With Alastor I sail across the sea 
in fragile boat of humble honesty, 
then climb faint winding mountain trail of faith 
to find the ancient cave of gleaming gems 
where Lord of Death once ruled the Underworld 
now filled with shadow-faced ghosts of the dead. 

My gaunt grandfather carves new mask of god 
for me to wear on the holy crusade 
when I lead army of devilish clowns 
in coup to overthrow the king of gold 
who hurls our nation in chaos of greed 
so I can save good people of our land. 

Yet on my journey to the Promised Land, 
while wandering in small town of simple folk, 
I find God working in the bakery 
selling loaves and bread with grilled fish and wine, 
so I wait tables in smoky nightclub 
while my lost love sings on the spot-lit stage. 

When evening veils city of glowing towers, 
I drive my car through endless maze of streets 
luminated by streetlamps and traffic signals, 
forever racing circles nowhere fast 
till I park in field by the loading docks 
and watch cargo ships on river of bones. 

I find no meaning to life in this world 
except that Life is so in love with Death 
he gives her endless gifts of living souls 
whom she keeps in Museum of the Dead 
forever preserved in quaint fairytales 
that parents read to children before bed. 



1 comment:

  1. Orpheus leads every dead soul up the faint winding mountain trail through fields of daffodils to the Museum of the Dead where they give masks of their faces to Ishtar.

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