Surrealism
By Adam Smith
The face that hides a thousand fears,
Decorated by the silver tears,
Which show the lives of tortured men,
Locked inside of each, and when,
When tear rolls and parts the lips,
The earth shakes and stalker sips
The flat perfume of childhood lost,
Not caring for extensive costs.
Slowly filtered by the soul,
The purest silver becomes whole,
Hole through which the diver delves,
And hole and diver find themselves.
The mirror eyes, adorned with love,
But undressed they do not love enough,
For he who spends the flight alone,
Weighed down by stars as heavy as stone.
A rent in space tears the sky apart,
And suns fall in to the heart,
Of misguided lands which twitch, and tear
The belly of the intruder.
Where upon a dead and twisted tree,
Hughes' Crow will always be,
With adorned eyes in gruesome beak,
Retching as he tries to speak,
And carrion eyes that frantic seek,
Dripping as they rot and reek.
Copyright © 2004; Irish Poetry Explosion. All Rights Reserved.