Names Written In Sand
© Surazeus
2025 06 21

Shocked by how far the wingless angel falls,
I carry bodies of the nameless dead
from smoking rubble of frail vanity,
heart broken at the sight of pretty faces
smeared with blood of innocent despair,
too sad to record political crimes.

Young father, clutching hand of his shocked wife,
carries two wounded children on his back
as they stumble from tall apartment building
engulfed in roaring flames of arrogance,
leaving behind photos of memories
that vanish in bitter winds of despair.

Arriving at the airport terminal,
crowded with thousands of war refugees,
the small family huddles on hard asphalt,
but no airplane with angelic wings
bears them safely to land of apple trees,
so they discard their names written in sand.

Attempting to compete with lonely death
in game of chess by striving to escape,
young father leaves his dead wife on dry sand
with their children embraced in her frail arms,
then walks across the waste land of his heart
to find art gallery by the River Styx.

Sipping wine in tall slender grail of faith,
young father observes works of abstract art,
red strips of cloth hanging from angel wings
to symbolize blood of our sacrifice
when people die in wars between rich men
who buy and sell their skulls as cryptocoins.

Diving in blue Mediterranean Sea,
young father swims with fierce demonic rage
past colossal Pillars of Hercules,
then rides graceful dolphin of Arion
to glass pyramid by Chesapeake Bay
where he works in the cellphone factory.

Though I am no Aeneas with brave heart
to shine as light for refugees to follow,
I will build empire based on enterprise
that provides analysis of events
defined by framework of conceptual peace
which requires nerves of courage to attack.

Surprised at impact of the wingless angel
that explodes with nuclear blast of contempt,
I wear television tube as strong helmet
to protect virtual model of the Earth
that crumbles into fake coins in my hands,
so I read all their names written in sand.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/06/…

Orpheus sifts hands in dunes of the waste land composed of sand from bodies of millions of people killed by bombs in endless wars to control the oil.

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