Leave Bones Of My Mother
© Surazeus
2026 06 01

If I consider how orange sunset glow
explodes as flowers in my pulsing brain,
I might fall in love with your timeless eyes
that understand strange beauty of this world
and value unseen essence of its vibes,
yet I do not exist in pageless books.

While I wander nowhere in flaming woods
I gather words people lose from their tongues
when they escape catastrophe of time
since angels deconstruct their precious worlds
because we are no longer real as stones
smoothed by the endless flow of bitter tears.

I leave bones of my mother in the land
where I was born from sparkle of dawn rain
when I flee alone on the signless road
with nothing in my hands but sticky dirt
I scattered on her body without prayers
because she no longer exists as light.

My mind is nothing more than passing cloud
that haunts my nothingness of urgent hope
with mutant shadow of the eyeless sun,
so I continue walking somewhere else
as I pretend to live with wounded heart
to prove I am not real as words in books.

Trees offer bounty of indifferent care,
so I take gift of wisdom from their limbs,
then sit by laughing river of respect
where I consume sweet fruit of bitter hate
to taste revenge I cannot execute
because I disappear in wordless fate.

Discarded scraps of precious memories
fall from my hands and clatter on the ground,
which fractures sheen of safety I once felt
so I am zero that time calculates
through fraudulent formula of desire
which deflects force of psychic energy.

Another soul that dissipates in wind
accelerates new count of circumstance
my brain attempts with weird seraphic code
of faith that helps decipher manic spell
to readjust projection we assert
though misdirection of the ocean wind.

With sticks and stones that bruise my naive heart
I build enormous palace of state power
enclosing garden of the apple tree
to guard my secret family from harm
who waits for me to kill the snake of lies
because we do not exist in your mind.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2026/06/…

Orpheus explains to visitors to the Museum of Zarathia why he does not exist except as shadow of words in the ever-changing labyrinth of their minds.

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