Brave Community Of Ghosts

Brave Community Of Ghosts
© Surazeus
2026 10 16

Since every temple where men worship gods 
has been contrived by bleeding hands of faith, 
I climb stairway to Heaven where glass skulls 
sing hymns of sorrow from the human heart 
that hypnotize my heart with siren spells 
so I almost shipwreck on rocks of truth. 

With laughter of deep-rooted trees of fear 
we find that when we solve catastrophe 
of shattered truth in puzzles of respect, 
we bond in brave community of ghosts 
who carve our new personality masks 
so we personify our souls as gods. 

Despite stark passion to preserve my soul 
beyond decay of flesh to wordless dust, 
I channel fierce incorrigible need 
to transform wreckage of mortality 
in gold-paved maze of grand celestial halls 
where we dance in mirrored haze of dreams. 

On mortal feet of uncelestial hope, 
to span isolation of inner peace 
in august columns of world theaters, 
star-forged from twisted agony of faith, 
I breach liminal space of tragic loss 
to cradle wounded goddess in my heart. 

Though idols of every god who has lived 
as mortal human struggling to survive 
with courage enough that molded their soul 
in marble statue that personifies 
their heroic victory against death, 
shine in temple of faith, I live my way. 

So many centuries of change have passed 
since we constructed from bones of the Earth 
Temple of Segesta on stony hill 
of sorrow for how Death claims every soul, 
yet I long to return on swan-brave wings 
to dwell again beneath its sheltering roof. 

Relaxed in garden of seaside chateau 
beside square fountain where black swans flap wings, 
I strum the lyre of Mercury and hum 
heart-wounding psalms that old David composed, 
as Edith conjures butterflies from Hell 
in memory of our long-deserted temple. 

In Temple of Segesta I still play 
lyre of Mercury with dream-weaving hands 
to mend wounded hearts with aoidic tunes 
that immortalize weak humans as gods 
to glorify mortals who wrestle death 
as spirits that transcend our tragic fates.