Beauty Of Our Broken Things
© Surazeus
2026 09 13

If time elucidates fissures of fear
with shocking beauty of our broken things,
stored on book shelves of late afternoon light,
I may decide to weave wires of my brain
in spiral galaxies of dirt-road pools
that lead me to the river of lost souls.

Strange flashing energy of my brain soul
is no temporary inhabitant
inside frame of my flesh, because it beams
intense self-consciousness of mirrored I,
mapped by entangled sentences of myth
that mark me as tenant of this strange globe.

Awake in forest of tall faceless trees,
frail body formed from mud by hands of fate,
I kneel and pray to no one in the sky
who gazes down at me from swirling clouds
through billions of eyes that all see my soul
leaking from my skin, though I rub the stone.

I am always afraid the world will end
in the next ten minutes of howling wind,
so I play the antihero for God
who stands stiff as stone in grand temple hall
where men in robes chant solemn hymns of faith
till airplanes bomb cathedrals into lies.

Though I live under shadow of respect,
veiled by cherub that hovers over me,
I gather berries and nuts from the ground,
and ask the oldest woman in the world
if she would bake them in sweet pie of faith
so I can sculpt formless God with cement.

Beside every house along every road
one tree of fruit shimmers as ghost of time
who unwinds clock of atoms to expose
my wounded heart on television screens
so everyone can read clinical notes
that diagnose malfunctions of my brain.

Standing on grassy shore of starless lake,
I hear secret song of the whip-poor-will
who senses slow departure of my soul
because I wish to join old Caspian Choirs
to sing of true love with low rhythmic hum,
preserved in language of my wounded tongue.

While gathered around blazing fire of fate
beneath bold jagged peaks on Isle of Skye,
we share tales of weird supernatural beings
which my investigations always show
are lonely people wandering in the wild
to conceal fissures of their wounded hearts.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2026/09/…

Orpheus translates songs of the whip-poor-will to elegant epigrams which he carves on tombstones of people killed in civil wars of thought control.

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