Shape Of My Hungry Flesh
© Surazeus
2026 05 17

If this world of water and wind and light
is all for me, my shadow on its hills,
then I will write my name across the sky,
but keep it secret that I fall from clouds
each day I rise up from soil of its hope
and wander among ruins of the past.

This great tree reaching toward the faceless sky,
that drops ripe apples in my hungry hands,
harps brightly humming in soft gusts of wind
because its roots curl down to core of time,
entwining bodies my ancestors left
when their spirits beamed back up to the stars.

My lamentation echoes between hills
where I rest in heat of the glowing sun
since fire is fundamental principle
that animates all beings with conscious life
for we appear from strife of opposites
to spiral through cycles of birth and death.

This animating flame of energy
that flares forth from first flash of the big bang
evolves into shape of my hungry flesh
so I sing clear with loneliness of heat
that urges me to roam around the world
till I know curve of every sparkling stream.

I record elements of day and night
through unlocalized images of time
which conjures thunderstorm of social change
to flash assertive rain on towns of men
who bury sorrow under roads of wealth
when floods erase buildings from ancient land.

I walk the signless road of everywhere
to visit every city in the land
that flourishes from sea to shining sea
so I record name and deeds of each life
to preserve their memories after they die
and vanish into dust on rain-drenched hills.

Now I am dreamer of all that is lost,
obsessed with singing tale of every soul
who rise as generations from the sea
in endless waves of strife to gain world fame
at piercing cry of hope that cracks the sky,
then sink in silence of indifferent graves.

Ephemeral flames of bodies glow at dawn
when our brains fuse with stones of nameless roads
till millions who strive to survive each day
are merged in idol of one faceless god
who represents our spirits in weird myths
that gleam as shadows on tree-shrouded hills.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2026/05/…

Orpheus keeps the cemetery clean where millions of his ancestors are all buried together in meadow where hippies hold rainbow gatherings every summer to dance and sing about love.

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