Find The Hidden Star

Find The Hidden Star
© Surazeus
2026 05 25

If no dead angels are found on the street 
nobody will throw them on the trash heap, 
yet the girl who paints make-up on her dolls 
always mistakes them for infernal trolls, 
so she transforms them into graceful cats 
who insist that angels are really bats. 

Sophie weeps for the boys in uniform 
shot in war to make slavery the norm, 
whose mangled bodies rot in summer sun 
while she stares in shock at the blood-stained gun 
her brother leaned against the bedroom wall 
while his horse flicks her tail in the barn stall. 

When Death knocks on the farm door at midnight, 
Sophie sees his face glowing with moonlight, 
so she gives him cup of chocolate to drink 
while he sits by the glowing hearth to think 
about how time unravels dreamless souls 
who think they are born to play special roles. 

Kneeling by lace-curtained window of faith, 
Sophie prays for insight from the Star Wraith, 
but all she hears in rustle of elm trees 
are voices of the dead as buzz of bees 
who explain nothing about why we die 
as she watches sunrise bleed from the sky. 

Trapped by necessity to calculate 
how rhymes help our spirits navigate 
confusing maze of myths with psychic tropes, 
Sophie records details of intense hopes 
she harbors in secret cove of her heart 
that will appear on no nautical chart. 

Laughter echoes in halls of the wood house 
where Sophie sings hymn in her favorite blouse 
with voice that fades in plangent prairie winds 
so her heart starts to ache where the road bends 
beyond horizon of Ohio hills 
in townless valley of innocent rills. 

For thirty days she rides the wagon far 
on noble quest to find the hidden star 
that gleams above the Rocky Mountain range, 
though she almost cries at the need to change 
from social turmoil of the civil war 
that shatters truth outside her bedroom door. 

No angels rot on Colorado plains 
so bones dissolve in cataclysmic rains 
where Sophie builds new house from memories 
which she hides as riddles in arcane keys 
that gleam in tangled neurons of my mind 
to bloom in fruit trees of weird truth I find.