Wings Of Pale Decay
© Surazeus
2025 05 09

Awake on thin ice of their fragile hearts,
too taut to trust with steps they need to take,
they float on tattered wings of pale decay
above the milk-glass pond of fabled fate
with faces bulging from the weightless tide
to mouth mute song of hope sealed by despair.

White bones of birch limbs bruising metal sky
deny sweet innocence of loyal faith
with creak of lovers shifting in their bed,
too old to cry, too young to hide their fears,
who wrap old coats around their paper skin
as seams, stitched tight by needle of doubt, split.

Bright mirrors in their house of memories
may turn their backs against sad face of doubt
if they refuse to see what hope as grown
with trembling fingers, cold from spidery thought,
yet they unbutton coats their past selves wore
that radiate rancid scent of petrichor.

They feed hearth fire with photographs of fate
that bend combusted into throat of light
which swallows smiles they lose in moaning grass
since pictures that record their happiness
lie with red eye of burning time to watch
how they are almost not afraid of death.

The shrieking kettle on the grumpy stove
boils fiercely till consequences condense
in sweating windows that should mourn the cold
till they grow colder with clean frost of love
while porcelain dolls inside glass bell jar
ring sharp when no one listens close enough.

When shadows scissor through unopen doors
at falling of the fork that stabs the floor,
they share heart-warming meal with wordless care,
though cutlery protests their sleight of hand
since ghosts would like to eat dreams of the dead
sweet-salted with sour taste of memory.

White crow of truth perched on the mailbox post,
with head side-tilted through psychiatry,
inquires with glassy eyes about their grief
till they explain they are their mirrored twins
as soulmates sleeping in the claw-scraped book
with names their children bury in their hearts.

Dawn sun peels off cracked sorrow with contempt,
too bright with raw alertness for their eyes,
that butchers darkness with intense concern,
revealing painful truths they mean to hide,
still they hold hands, old spirits cracked by love,
faithful lovers adjusted in one whole.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/05/…

Orpheus and Ophelia invite Sylvia and Ted to eat lunch at their cottage by the lake, then hike the windy heath of Anywhere.

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