Art Of Losing Things
© Surazeus
2026 07 18

Almost unseen in the hot summer sun,
the faceless ghost who haunts my large back yard
watches me with ancient eyes of regret,
but when I approach her in soundless glow
of heatwaves shimmering over dry grass
she vanishes into ache of my heart.

Just as I almost forget she is real,
she reappears from shadow of desire
to show me tremendous fish of her heart
that she caught from deep lake of innocence,
speckled with lime rosettes of secret code,
which pulses with rainbow of rented truth.

With eyes that glare at long-dead stars of faith,
she tells me I should master with intent
the art of losing things I value most,
so I spend hours searching for dream keys
that I am sure I left beside the door,
while she stares weeping at her broken watch.

I write her story in my book of tales
with golden blood of angels as my ink,
but every morning when I look again
the words have vanished into beams of light
cast by the midday sun through web of limbs
from trees that seem to understand her heart.

Her life must be disaster of desire,
strange drama never seen on stage of fame,
because she walks along the winding flow
of red Scamander River on the plain
below the hill where towers of Ilium
crumbled into words of lost epic poems.

While I sip ginger tea on the back porch,
idly plucking strings of my broken lyre,
she grips my arm with weird beatific smile,
and tells me this day when the tyrant falls
is the most beautiful day of the year
but tomorrow we must get back to work.

Because I think I hear the forest elf
whistle as she dances on moonlit grass,
I feel my heart drawn taut as silver string
that twangs with wordless voices of the land
where star-eyed owls of Nowhere Land keep watch
over ghost-crowded streets of paradise.

Eyes half-closed against the bright summer sun,
that shimmers gold in canopies of trees,
I hear eerie song of the faceless ghost
whose sweet mercurial voice of secret love
reveals the presence of Athena near,
because I am the sorrow of her tear.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2026/07/…

Orpheus visits Elizabeth in her home by the sea where they talk about the mad prophet of Boston who haunts the aquarium at midnight of secret code.

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