Time Of Broken Clocks
© Surazeus
2026 05 17

If I am born in time of broken clocks
in log cabin beside the sparkling river,
my heart will crumble into flakes of rust
each time I walk past ticking stone of fate
that drinks the salty tears of fallen angels
who stitch fractured watches on tattered wings.

Though I drift lost in time of broken clocks
in cathedral of shattered pendulums
that toll no twisted hour of unspooled grief,
I ride the graveyard carousel till dawn
on weeping horse with crackling bones of glass
till my hands become turtles in the pond.

Before I laugh in time of broken clocks
as midnight stitches paper masks from moons,
composed from writhing clumps of bitter snow,
I swim in ocean of unmoving hands
that drown pulsing face of eternity
with graphic weight of arbitrary words.

After I cry in time of broken clocks,
while stumbling dark halls of the floating castle,
I find hourglass on legless desk of fear
that coughs ashes where it once poured pure gold
at sudden misalignment of six kites
that veil blind cherub hovering over me.

Never awake in time of broken clocks,
I climb staircase that melts upward in clouds
of black water, comprised of eyeless gods,
to cluttered meadow where electric birds
with lanterns glowing in transparent ribs
explain why every faceless human dies.

Stuck alone outside time of broken clocks,
I crawl across the windy plain of homes
where violins grow roots through their floorboards
to reassemble puzzle from our dreams
into graceful church with four tall white steeples
where no one ever sings hymns about death.

Trapped by truth outside time of broken clocks,
I map sizzling rivers that flow backwards
through libraries where every book bleeds sand
instead of pages wrapped around glass moons
that hang suspected above bovine fields
where eyeless statues play chess with my shadow.

Since I will die in time of broken clocks,
I polish mirrors in numberless houses
that are filled with thunderstorms of desire
brewing inside brains of innocent boys
who aim guns at photographs on dead trees
and shout to imitate sharp sounds of shots.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2026/05/…

Orpheus goes all over the world repairing broken clocks that misalign conceptual fates of strangers who get married and talk about the weather.

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