The house of the moon where I keep my soul
shines invisible to the eye of greed
for its walls are fragile pages of light
where I write down all the dreams I forgot
in words that slip through my fingers like rain
before I can taste memories of your love.

It seems I am always walking through doors
to find the mystery of your secret name
you never tell me except through your song
that shimmers on the naked air of hope
so when I think I understand real you
you shapeshift into sweet stranger I love.

I think about the way the river flows
through sparkles of sunlight in silent wind
to lead me wandering among heat-dry hills
whose timeless ecstasy of lurid stillness
reveals cute mask you wear to lure me home
so I stay here alone on the lake shore.

Although if you crack open my frail bones
you can read the history of my desire
to replicate new body from my soul
so I can spring beyond my broken self
on coiled genetic wings of strict ambition
and fly among the clouds that rain on you.

The house of the moon we together build
from story pages we tear from old books
protects our passion-scarred hearts from lost faith
long shrouding our minds in veil of despair
since rain flushes aching tears of mute sorrow
in thirsty soil that drinks our loyal love.

If you wake to see me walking through doors
of abandoned churches to measure walls
of ruined faith that crumble with turned time
you can invent new name for me to wear
that hour we roll together in wet grass
and kiss in passionate pleasure of lust.

When you explain the way the river flows
in streams of thought-sparkling words from our hearts
to flash weird visions of what is not real
too real before our illusion-smeared eyes
we hold hands and laugh to become light beams
of joy weaving waves of pleasure in dance.

As blind angels crack open my frail bones
each photograph of one dead person flies
on butterfly wings to weave threads of words
in time-shifting tapestry of lost tales
so each ancestor who designed my soul
wears my face as mask of who I am now.

The house of the moon where I dream reborn
from spiral tendrils of alphabet vines
reveals on mirror walls every strange face
my ancestors wore on journey to find
fountain of youth where they met their soulmate
who weave new body for me to wear now.

Because we never cease walking through doors
to explore beyond pale of our safe haven
we write encyclopedia to preserve
world encircled by feet of curious children
when I drape my shoulders in wolf-skin cape
then hold wand and gem as I view the Earth.

Now I will map the way the river flows
to calculate strict process of erosion
when eager wind sculpts mountains from soul dust
exposing skulls of dragons who once roamed
landscape of this wild globe when we first crawled
hungry along rivers to find fresh fruit.

So my lover cracks open my frail bones
to dip its sharpened point in my heart blood
and write these formulas of spelling verse
on tablets of stone in new prophecy
that describes how the messiah sleuth dreams
way to redesign our society.

Surazeus is the pen name of Simon Seamount, a cartographer who lives in Columbus, Georgia with his wife and two children. Surazeus has written lyrics since 1986, and during 2011-5 composed the Hermead, an epic poem about ancient philosophers, in 126,680 lines of blank verse. Surazeus has had poems previously published in RipRap Journal, The Offbeat, Screech Owl, and Ygdrasil.

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