Never About The Trees
© Surazeus
2026 06 17

Because it was never about the trees,
except how telephone poles steal her voice
and twist emotional tones into jokes,
Nerthus decides to build home furniture,
molding raw wood into tables and chairs
which brings people together with calm love.

Through hypothetical thoughts of desire
with unshared solitude of calm regret,
Nerthus measures vastness of her weird heart
that wears mask on deserted stage of faith
in tune with social discourse of the hour
when she traverses time without her heart.

Since she can never understand our words,
despite embracing feelings she finds cold,
Nerthus translates strange shadow of her mind
to clarity of colors angels brew
from blood of children killed in civil wars
whose faces glow from flash of friendly bombs.

Based on unknown proverb of naked truth,
that doubles phantoms of our hungry souls
through endless mirrors on pages of books,
Nerthus calculates equivalent thoughts
to match alien truths devised to untwist
beauty born from concept of nothingness.

Since words of wisdom bleed from her torn tongue,
against inverted pattern striped with eyes,
Nerthus maps contemptuous canticles
smeared across ghost-bare hills of tangled roots
to prove her speech expresses how she feels
with honest bitterness of unearned love.

When she decides that yellow asters match
veils of silent rapture drenched in mute rain,
Nerthus conducts shy ceremonial game
to hide unhealed wounds of maturity
with solemn chorus only lake winds scream,
too beautiful for chords that hurt our hearts.

Her tales may seem vaguely mysterious
since her beliefs are hidden in plain code,
so Nerthus cracks oblivion with prayers
unanswered after weirdly portent words
reveal blank space between our pulsing hearts
that no amount of trust can bridge till death.

Since consequence of her belief in God
means nothing to cold waves that wreck hard cliffs
with gentle kisses of indifferent love,
Nerthus gives her daughter small apple seed
without explaining how to build new home
from planks of wood that rot in hungry rain.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2026/06/…

Orpheus worries his daughter Ostara may not find her own path in the wilderness of wonderful whimsy where ghosts weave roots into songs.

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