Snow-White God Butterfly
© Surazeus
2026 07 11

If I cast my bread in waters of hope,
after selling devils ten thousand cars,
I could buy descendant of Pegasus
to fly above vast maze of city streets
where people chase bright rainbow of respect
till they vanish in television shows.

With sharp knife of assertive innocence,
I slice bread loaf of economic gain
so every person in the world can eat
as if food is the answer to despair,
because the snow-white god butterfly knows
secret passion of my casino heart.

Though all gods humans worshipped in the past
are nameless gusts of wind in sun-gold trees,
I feel them ever present in my home
for they haunt those who think about them most,
small lights of hope in darkness of the world
that guide my way in tangled woods of change.

Ghost of my mother in her living room
sits in the rocking chair of timeless truth,
and knits another sweater of concern
from huge ball of traumatic memories
which she gives to homeless people downtown
who wear them when they huddle in snow fall.

Since the dream ghost of everyone decides
to sell lamp of Diogenes to Thor,
our bodies have become vessels of thought
programmed to perform duties for the dream
that hard work is rewarded with great wealth
which we all share in our hypnotic trance.

When Alfred the Great and Harald Fairhair
play game of chess in Kronborg Castle court
over who will wear the golden Crown of Thorns,
Phoebus takes hand of Alof Gydhasdottir
and sails with her to misty Isle of Skye
where they fly his starship to Magrathea.

Now that I know my whole ancestral tale,
filled with men and women with starry eyes
who attempted to build Heaven on Earth,
I can relax on shore of River Styx
and think of how to map world history
that includes every soul who ever lived.

After I work in the car factory,
assembling engines from midnight till dawn,
I hang out in meadow of dew-wet grass
and listen to snow-white god butterfly
describe how swerving atoms interact
to conjure consciousness in dreaming brains.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2026/07/…

Orpheus finds Pegasus grazing in the dew-wet meadow by the River Styx where the winged horse of fate watches over my grave for the rest of eternity.

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