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Saturday, May 16, 2026

Become The Eyeless Ghost

Become The Eyeless Ghost
© Surazeus
2026 05 16

Tangled in roots of the ancient pear tree, 
scroll of sorrow swells with hydraulic tears 
of nameless people in forest of shadows 
whose suffering has become the eyeless ghost 
that haunts the solemn courtrooms of old law, 
so I preserve the scroll in hall of glass. 

Each time I gaze at ghost of some dead soul, 
whose face is painted with colorful goop 
smeared on wood panel and hung on the wall, 
I see reflection of immortal soul 
encoded in the human genes we share, 
so I smile till their soul wakes in my heart. 

Arrhythmic beat of wounded angel wings 
asserts free will my heart preserves in code 
of static words that I repeat each day 
in rote routine as groove of legacy 
which scratches when I skip confining phase 
to weep with nostalgia for frantic dreams. 

Trapped by hope in dark evening of the mind, 
I chase fireflies twitching in sunset blood 
to hide from shadow slithering among trees 
till I find Apple Witch with golden eyes 
reading book of spells by the garden wall 
who gives me last martyred peach of her heart. 

Though I wander somewhere in her dark woods 
without purpose, except to understand 
why every living creature has to die, 
she calls my name no one else knows but her 
till I wake in circling aura of her heart 
where she makes me wear mask of her desire. 

Trees represent stillness of stoic grace 
we cannot keep with our time-anxious hearts, 
she explains to me with confusing words, 
so I sew leather skin of angry bulls 
into basketballs on courts of warfare 
that symbolize this civil war we fight. 

Magnified by strategies to gain fame, 
her mission readjusts focus of fate 
to avoid flaws in dilemma of truth 
that vague concepts trap our minds in grand creeds 
in which we dare indulge against regret 
with inconclusive utterance of faith. 

Thus I shall quaff moon ale from pewter stoup 
to taste sweet blood of angels with mad hearts 
who fall from Heaven every day or two 
then trudge to work at the cold factory 
to transform bones of dragons into tools 
we use to build empire of howling ghosts. 



1 comment:

  1. Orpheus remembers how Ophelia likes to visit the folk museum in Oslo where ghosts of her ancestors haunt the ancient log cabins of innocent faith in honest love.

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