Broken Angel Wings
© Surazeus
2025 09 04

Or we can flap our broken angel wings
and pretend we can soar high among clouds
despite heavy stone of sorrowing pain
that chains our clumsy bodies to the ground,
because we must accept limits of flesh
that weaves our spirits in the cosmic mesh.

My frail grandmother carves and polishes
new pair of eyes from marble of despair
so I can see the real world as it is,
composed of atoms swerving in the void
instead of manifestations of forms
based on eternal ideas of thought.

Avoiding competitions for world fame
that trap the human with gold mask of god,
I wander lonely as the glowing cloud
with golden hordes of dancing daffodils
to strum the holy lyre of Mercury
and sing to stones and trees on mountain slopes.

With Alastor I sail across the sea
in fragile boat of humble honesty,
then climb faint winding mountain trail of faith
to find the ancient cave of gleaming gems
where Lord of Death once ruled the Underworld
now filled with shadow-faced ghosts of the dead.

My gaunt grandfather carves new mask of god
for me to wear on the holy crusade
when I lead army of devilish clowns
in coup to overthrow the king of gold
who hurls our nation in chaos of greed
so I can save good people of our land.

Yet on my journey to the Promised Land,
while wandering in small town of simple folk,
I find God working in the bakery
selling loaves and bread with grilled fish and wine,
so I wait tables in smoky nightclub
while my lost love sings on the spot-lit stage.

When evening veils city of glowing towers,
I drive my car through endless maze of streets
luminated by streetlamps and traffic signals,
forever racing circles nowhere fast
till I park in field by the loading docks
and watch cargo ships on river of bones.

I find no meaning to life in this world
except that Life is so in love with Death
he gives her endless gifts of living souls
whom she keeps in Museum of the Dead
forever preserved in quaint fairytales
that parents read to children before bed.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/09/…

Orpheus leads every dead soul up the faint winding mountain trail through fields of daffodils to the Museum of the Dead where they give masks of their faces to Ishtar.

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