Become The Eyeless Ghost
© Surazeus
2026 05 16

Tangled in roots of the ancient pear tree,
scroll of sorrow swells with hydraulic tears
of nameless people in forest of shadows
whose suffering has become the eyeless ghost
that haunts the solemn courtrooms of old law,
so I preserve the scroll in hall of glass.

Each time I gaze at ghost of some dead soul,
whose face is painted with colorful goop
smeared on wood panel and hung on the wall,
I see reflection of immortal soul
encoded in the human genes we share,
so I smile till their soul wakes in my heart.

Arrhythmic beat of wounded angel wings
asserts free will my heart preserves in code
of static words that I repeat each day
in rote routine as groove of legacy
which scratches when I skip confining phase
to weep with nostalgia for frantic dreams.

Trapped by hope in dark evening of the mind,
I chase fireflies twitching in sunset blood
to hide from shadow slithering among trees
till I find Apple Witch with golden eyes
reading book of spells by the garden wall
who gives me last martyred peach of her heart.

Though I wander somewhere in her dark woods
without purpose, except to understand
why every living creature has to die,
she calls my name no one else knows but her
till I wake in circling aura of her heart
where she makes me wear mask of her desire.

Trees represent stillness of stoic grace
we cannot keep with our time-anxious hearts,
she explains to me with confusing words,
so I sew leather skin of angry bulls
into basketballs on courts of warfare
that symbolize this civil war we fight.

Magnified by strategies to gain fame,
her mission readjusts focus of fate
to avoid flaws in dilemma of truth
that vague concepts trap our minds in grand creeds
in which we dare indulge against regret
with inconclusive utterance of faith.

Thus I shall quaff moon ale from pewter stoup
to taste sweet blood of angels with mad hearts
who fall from Heaven every day or two
then trudge to work at the cold factory
to transform bones of dragons into tools
we use to build empire of howling ghosts.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2026/05/…

Orpheus remembers how Ophelia likes to visit the folk museum in Oslo where ghosts of her ancestors haunt the ancient log cabins of innocent faith in honest love.

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