Empty Sky Of Where
© Surazeus
2025 05 11

New statue of the baby born from mud,
brain ticking with gears of the eager watch,
expresses voice of hope with cry for truth
compressed as milk from breast of Mother Earth
which takes its place among the elements
that redefine museum of the mind.

Face of my mother, bright as morning clouds,
distills clear mirror that reflects my soul
with slow effacement of that divine hand
which reaches down from empty sky of where
to rearrange my memories in soft words
that flicker with sea waves to be more fair.

If window frame of my new infant brain
will swallow stars of vowels flashing souls,
my body may swell huge with breath of thought
so I can float above this maze of homes
where cows drive motorcycles on dirt roads
to roar through shadows of the doorless wall.

Thus born from laughing books of hungry crows
I swoop library halls of ancient maps
where scholars resurrect specific gods
with reverent honesty of measured faith
to paint new characters on sacred walls
in mural that depicts grand history.

Escaped from factory of the blind machine
where I assembled engines from god bones,
I wander waste land of the howling wind
where I arrange stones in enormous swirls
that spiral lithe as dragons of my heart
which none can see except from soaring planes.

Inhaling spirit of the holy hymn,
that fallible humans with angel wings
sing solemnly with annoying Saint Voice,
I fly ungracefully above small town
to swoop above taut phone lines of our hearts
and swirl around tall trees with giggling leaves.

When my mother appears with silver eyes
wearing cloud mask from empty sky of where,
I see twelve million generations bloom
through evolution of the singing fish
to human face she wears with beaming smile
as she sings lullaby of the white horse.

Each statue of Mary carved from gray stone,
which stands in every cathedral on Earth,
bears new-born child from spirit of the sun
whose fate is written by the money man
to rule as king in castle of his fear
till I decide to run into the woods.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/05/…

Orpheus reaches out his infant hands to caress face of Calliope who strums small lyre and sings hymn to Apollo.

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