Laughter Of False Faith
© Surazeus
2025 11 18

Relaxed in hollow of dream-fractured house
where my ancestral ghosts play chase with death,
I bleed my eyes as words in holy book
that flaps crow wings of frantic arrogance
to bear my wordless soul to paradise
where my glass bones form foundation of faith.

Contrary to how time allocates truth,
we give each other lies our trembling hands
mold from desperate hope to understand
why our bodies pulse with hungry light,
eager to transcend mute nothingness
by singing sorrows of weird ocean waves.

Town bus we ride should always take us home
past fate-parceled lots with numberless doors
that never open to our fearful knock
unless we forge new key of innocence
from fractured skulls of gods we find in dirt
that singe our hands with laughter of false faith.

Since faith means nothing to the rolling stone
that tumbles from lame hands of Sisyphus,
we steal gold coins from coffers of the clown
who claims he owns both our bodies and souls,
then give them to the woman on the beach
who shows us where the sun is born each dawn.

When I step off the bus outside of town,
far from the nearest church, school, store, or bank,
I find myself with no direction home
outside the walls of paradise we built,
so I walk nowhere to find my own grave
filled with books of stories no one can read.

I become oak by the side of the road
where I stand ten thousand years of steady change
to watch small tribes of humans multiply
into sprawling empires of warring gangs
who contest over which man will play god
till death erases them all from the land.

When I return to body of my self,
I wake just three hours after midnight
to contemplate strange patterns of my life
where I keep wandering somewhere else to find
house of the rising sun beside the sea
where lost girls take control of their own lives.

I drift two hours on gentle waves of faith
that surges strong as forceful energy
which fuels assertive passion of my play
when I perform this artificial self
that I have molded from experience
getting lost on the signless road nowhere.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/11/…

Orpheus sits alone in the empty house of the numberless door for ten thousand years as he ignores the rise and fall of empires till humanity evolves into crows.

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