One Can Almost Not
© Surazeus
2025 08 12

One can almost not hear song of the rain
echo down long dark hallways of old schools
where weeping fairies who clutch leather books
scatter letters from ancient epics on the floor
till they sprout butterfly wings and escape
solemnity of anguish no one shares.

One can almost not see wild man of bones
leaping aloft on wings of wicked laughter
while chasing young lovers in misty vales
to tear beauty from their soft writhing bodies
with mortal blow of the drunken wingbeat
that cracks glaciers converting tears to lakes.

One can almost not smell pungent regret
dispersed in sterile winds of wretched faith
that glistens with sharp ennui of contempt
when vampire swan with wings blackened by blood
scatters horror of death from twisted plumes
caught in the phantom engine of the plane.

One can almost not taste metallic lust
immobilized by scorn of useless hope
that countless wanderers across waste lands
never sing in hymns at founding of kingdoms
that crumble at crack of demonic eggs
when no one shakes anguish off in hot rain.

One can almost not touch svelte flesh of pain
who lies on bed of roses in dark grotto
dripping with perfume of angelic blood
at how gods alter loyalties of fools
by clutching votive scroll of prophecies
soaked in pool of mud in the bright swamp.

One can almost not feel struggle undone
by graceless waddle of the crippled king
who vainly clutches broken wand of power
while teaching children how to chant weird spells
when they appear on television shows
anxious to win the contest for world fame.

One can almost not know truth about Death
who stares at us for endless centuries
as we perform our duties to the land
through calculation against bitter fate
to gain perspective on the way of things,
consigned to always replay how we die.

One can almost not sing reflective psalm
concerning methods gods use to rule mankind
by pulling painted faces from cracked mirrors
enough to navigate needs of the people
who strive to transcend trap of royalty
based on excessive prayers dead angels eat.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/08/…

Orpheus explains to children gathered around his stone of sorrow about how they can learn to almost not cease to exist through illusion of song.

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