Uproot Burning Bush
© Surazeus
2025 08 29

Grief lifts torn wings and screams at nothingness
with voice of every soul that every lived
to wake god of the dead from rotten soil,
so I stride busy market street at dawn
to buy delicious loaf of butter cake
then sit and eat with ginger hot chocolate.

Despair unleashes fear-sharp falcon claws
to tear at pulsing veil of earnestness
that rends corpses of gods from our mute hearts,
so I browse pretty books of poetry
in the quaint bookstore by the flower shop
where Alette reads fairytales to young children.

Transforming from rose to owl back to girl,
Alette drifts slowly through the teeming crowd
of people swarming in the shopping mall
to find the Tyrant with the heart of steel
so she can uproot burning bush of hate,
arresting his coup to control the world.

When shy Alette with leap of innocence
descends to underworld of howling ghosts,
she walks with quiet pace of God far west
to drag down mountains from the fractured sky
and scatter apple seeds in muddy creeks
that sprout into radios with happy songs.

Black storm clouds wander blithely over hills
where old wood houses lurk in yellow grass
to hide from dusty roads that stumble lost
past moaning oak trees crowded with blind crows
despite desire that fuels my aching heart
to catch bitter sparks of rain with my hands.

Cautiously stepping along the rain-worn fence,
Alette shines flashlight in eyes of the owl
that flicks its ears with warning of the fall,
so she looks down to see coiled rattlesnake
sleeping peacefully on grave of her god,
so she turns and flies away on swan wings.

Calling out to lost people of the land,
Alette weeps for all those she could not save,
so they walk to school and sit at bone desks
in bright fluorescent-lit classrooms of grief
to carve devil runes on door of the church
always locked with the deadbolt of discourse.

The oldest woman in the world, with eyes
bright as diamonds buried billions of years,
gives slices of cake to lonely travelers
who stop for a rest in temple of skulls
to ask Orpheus if he knows the way,
but he just smiles frail as the butterfly.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/08/…

Orpheus stares shocked at the butterfly that descends from the sky while he clutches his rifle and crouches in the trench to hide from bullets of prophecy.

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