Twisted Black Boughs
© Surazeus
2025 03 16

White apple blossoms on twisted black boughs
confuse my heart with ancient memories
that must have been experienced long ago
by nameless ancestors who must be mine
for all their memories program how I think,
so I merge them all into who I am.

Silver-sky light gleams in twisted black boughs
of hungry trees that try to reach the sky
with space-invading energy of hope
that flashes wordless visions in my mind
where I see people walking down the street
to go somewhere I am not going to.

I want to stop the woman with no face
as we pass each other by empty church
about the secret pleasures of her heart
so words she speaks may mold mask for her face
which I can signify with secret name
she shares in whisper from hidden desire.

While we sit together in sharp moonlight
I gaze at her face for ten thousand years
till every feature of her hidden heart
emerges from shadow as spoken hope
so now I see her face on everything,
even the moon that reflects her true soul.

I spend all day among the apple trees,
twisted black boughs lit bright by the gold sun,
tending each individual tree with care
to ensure upmost production of fruits
that softly explode from pores of my brain
so I become the tree of timeless faith.

Earth-bound with preference for the flowing stream
that carries all sorrow to the mute sea,
I till thick soil with energy of hope
to cherish apple trees that grow from graves
where my ancestors breathe the boundless sky
so we can dance among twisted black boughs

Instead of worms feeding on my dead soul
when my children bury me under trees
I want cheerful larks on twisted black boughs
to consume tattered fragments of my soul
and carry me among the swirling clouds
where I can become the freedom of flight.

But I wake again from dull dream of death
and sit with heavy heart of aging angst
beneath shelter of my twisted black boughs
till she brings hot apple pie from our home
for us to eat in the cool evening glow,
so I gaze at her strange face as she sings.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/03/…

Orpheus and Ophelia eat apple pie in the apple orchard where they have lived twenty-five years of marital bliss while raising children of their hearts.

#Poetry #Poem #Pastoral #Necropastoral #MetaModernism #MetaRomanticism #NewSublimity #NewRomanticism #AmericanDream #Cinemism #Existentialism #Surrealism #NegativeCapability #NewGnosticism #MetaRealism #NewTranscendentalism #Astarism