When Rain Unfalls Itself
© Surazeus
2026 03 03

Before the door that is not in the woods
I listen to the voice that does not speak
about painful sorrow I cannot feel,
so I walk without moving nowhere else
till I arrive at the town by the lake
where no one builds houses with garden walls.

When I look at people who are not there
and ask them questions about nothing more
they never explain the rules of their lives
so I make nothing with tools of my hands
and fly without wings on breath of false hope
to map the houses that are never real.

I walk forever on the signless road
and think about events that never happen
to fill my basket with never-bloomed fruit
while waiting for the world to never turn
when rain unfalls itself to empty skies
that reflect featureless face of Ungod.

I cannot describe what anything is
because words entangle my heart with lies
so I meditate on the hive of bees
while discarding my thoughts on summer breeze
that wafts my fragile body among clouds
above colorless realm of ideal forms.

Behind the door that is not by the sea
I observe the waves that do not unscroll
vast tapestry that depicts nothingness
embodied by people who have no names
while they wander bridge of forgetfulness
till they get tired of losing every game.

During total eclipse of the blood moon
billions of people assemble in halls
and sing hymns to their great ancestral god
depicted by the idol on the stage
that never opens divine eyes of truth
nor ever speaks to grant their fervent prayers.

Their long-forgotten gods wake from strange dreams
and gather in the ring of humming stones
to complain about faithful worshippers
who never seek to become their real selves
because they all wear same mask of their god
with desperate fear that life will be destroyed.

I eat peanut butter with apple sauce
at the small round table in my brick house,
then drink angel-blood milk of calm belief
that beautiful songs are born from mute grief,
so I open the door to everywhere
to visit each world in the multiverse.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2026/03/…

Orpheus paints face of Ophelia on the door that is not there in the woods of infinite impossibilities.

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