Empty Space Of Time
© Surazeus
2025 07 28

If Death catches me listening to the ground,
I will define its empty space of time
as home where we can gather in the grass
to weave wild laughter of the wind in songs
that flush ethereal spirit through our hearts
so we can row our boats across the lake.

Bright clouds cast shadows of our faceless souls
that drag our bodies across fields of bones
till moonlight resurrects us from our dreams
to run with horses on the river shore
where they explain how blind trees produce fruit
while I write songs in mud with bloody sticks.

Because the lost road takes us to the snow
we kneel with humble gratitude for Death
who teaches us to eat lush grass of graves
where cows still dream for twenty thousand years
watched over by the woman with the lamp
which gleams with eyes of demons born from rain.

White lizards swallow asteroids of fate
to show us where our children will be born
so we arrange feathers from angel wings
in clear proportion to unknown desires
worn by the woman with blood on her face
who dances wild for twenty thousand years.

Because we meet the dead on all lost roads
we give them names that make them come alive
so we build homes along the river shore
where children of our bodies run and play
till they grow into planet-conquering gods
who stand on lonely pyramids and cry.

The woman who gives light to wandering souls
assembles refugees from civil wars
in loyal tribes who worship her one eye
because she rules for twenty thousand years
each empire that dares rise from skulls of gods
who give maps of world roads to hungry sons.

The old man strumming mandolin of hope
recounts adventures of the three-eyed fox
who tricks proud minions of the carpenter
to hunt the devil in the rancid swamp
yet still refuses to play chess with Death
though he makes fatal deals on the lost road.

While promenading with Death on the lost road,
who wears her black lace dress and scarlet cape,
I remember myself as river boy
when I lay naked on the time-smooth stone
and listened to the sky of aching stars
explain why all organic bodies die.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/07/…

Orpheus rows along the Mississippi River with Frank Stanford who marries the alligator princess who makes pumpkin pie for angels fallen from the stars.

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