Garden Of Dead Books
© Surazeus
2025 04 10

Too much combustion of the ardent kiss
leaves us stranded in garden of dead books,
poison of love stinging our eyes with trust
as we create ideal lover from hope
in masks we wear to keep us interested
in constant fever of the flowering moon.

Remote from malice of the naive tree,
our bodies are yoked to fountain of secrets
which traps us in gold cage of honesty
as our hearts transform each dagger-sharp word
to seeds that heal excessive wounds of faith
with each heart-rending howl of hungry hope.

We zigzag through reckless maze of our hearts
with untamed horse of hope that fools our eyes,
amazed by vapor of untruth that veils death,
invented by metallic tongues of fear
in time to catch the falling star of fate
which discombobulates our marriage vows.

Beneath the hazardous tree of despair,
where we find shelter from the evening storm,
we gather black feathers of ravens to weave
new pairs of wings for our hearts to attain
freedom from gravity of arrogant hate
while waterfalls erase our souls from time.

Shadow of horror transforms into swan
who soars into thundering clouds of rage
to strip our minds from garments of false faith
when sunset rays stipple lake of our hearts
with vibrant passion we cannot deny
since we keep on kissing reluctantly.

Fallen into flood of terrified tears,
we feel our bodies transform into stones
exploding with children of eager hope
who carry that concept in trembling hands
to retrieve our bodies from tangled roots
of trees that scream owls of eternity.

Huddled after rain on the river shore,
beneath the willow that will never die,
we tell each other we will be all right
because we hide our stories in the book
that sits unread for twenty thousand years
on hidden shelf in library of ghosts.

We cannot own the field that bears our names
except when we bury with trembling hands
bones of our ancestors in unfenced soil
so carrots and corn may grow from their brains
to provide nutrition for fragile bodies
supported by framework of unborn hope.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/04/…

Orpheus and Ophelia rip tangled vines and wild plants from the field of bones to create a garden of organized crops in the wilderness of fake hope.

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