Ripe Apple Of The Sun
© Surazeus
2026 02 17

If I should catch ripe apple of the sun
before it falls in thick Slough of Despond
I may taste bitter sweetness of true love
which is why the revolution is fought
with passion for aspiring right to stand
with fluted robe of hope on modern shores.

We ride wave of this golden age with class,
exquisite in white marble drapery
that gleams with brutal wisdom of starlight
in gleaming waters of the fountain pool
where statues of our ancestors remain
long after their souls program our genes.

While change remains eternal principle
that guides our progress from classical times,
we gaze with rapture at excessive shapes
contained in watery medium of our minds
reflecting glimmer of grief in our eyes
we cherish with consensual fortitude.

Alive in warm flesh of young nameless boy,
Apollo glides in cluttered streets of Rome
with flute he plays for national orchestras
on transparent stage of undevoured time
to note accentual differences of rhyme
we share as witness of treacherous death.

Yet unread pages of the ancient book
still mirror characters with noble traits
who never walk this world in mortal flesh
for they are ideals we aspire to play,
stuck in impossible scenarios
that always end in tragic loss of faith.

Uncommon radiance of her special face
gleams clear with incandescent honesty
through immaterial passion to retrieve
efficient confidence from tombs of fate,
defined by absence of our mortal souls
embodied by glass idols of respect.

Endurance through aesthetic thoughtfulness
reveals how numb bereavement frames our days
with courage to survive contingencies
no one but scarred survivors will expect
though trapped in consolations of contempt
that drown our hearts in cold indifferences.

Assertive discipline of summoned ghosts
constrains excessive passion to transcend
bland credence of divisive energies
that teach us how to understand our pain
despite attempts to bank fateful accounts
with apples we store in our wounded hearts.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2026/02/…

Orpheus finds Alfred Corn by the fountain of time-worn idols in the spacious plaza in Rome as he ponders lives of ancient heroes where children play chase with death.

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