Enough To Prove My Worth
© Surazeus
2026 03 21

Leaves of books whisper in soft river breeze
where oak leaves flutter lightly on my chest,
unpatterned spread of limbs rewinding time
at random turn of bright arrogant clouds
concerned that I am not earning my pay
enough to prove my worth in Kingdom Come.

Rain patters lightly on still-open book
in silver drops that smudge names of the dead
and smear their tales of sorrow on blank page
concerned that fate is based random chance
because I am programmed to make each choice
that defines galvanized laughter of death.

Dazzled by sudden light in web of limbs,
I try to befriend strangers in the park
whose clean shoes are plastered with rain-wet leaves
but they would give me crystal lithium
to register days of straight unsure rain
with relentless observation of eyes.

Digressive immediacy, rendered moot
by accurate diagnosis of love,
crescendos erratic patterns contrived
by daily notes about strange incidents
clever readers glean from clandestine clues
when we dismantle truths we long hold dear.

Oblique performance of flirtatious care,
disguised by shy alertness off lit stage,
reveals vulnerable feelings we might share,
though disclosures conceal beauty of life
that vex my heart with irrational calm
based on discipline of ironic faith.

To reconcile sensible tone of spells,
carved by bloody blades on trunks of old oaks,
I record painful distinction of change
between obsessive states of mindless fear,
when my father presses foot on my chest
to drown me in gushing river of change.

Banalities of everyday routines
invite reality to fool my heart
with grand delusions of poisonous fame,
so I employ false narrative account
as vehicle for confession that I
transmute despair into beautiful jokes.

Dining out together on Friday night
in glass cathedral of excessive faith,
we articulate strange exquisite truth
about how rain and leaves will lightly fall
on soft uncovered skin of psychic soul
with unforced flow of wordless dreams we share.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2026/03/…

Orpheus visits James Schuyler in the mental hospital where they just sit together at the metal table by the window and stare at rain drops on glass.

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