Surrealism as Spirituality

Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem

The voiceless things, insensate willow trees,

Volcanoes, constellations and their sky

Sing like an anchoress with galaxies

Instead of throat and tongue.  A voiceless eye

Waits mute for some divinity to pass

In front of it, Surrealist its weight,

Afloat above an atheist crevasse.

These prove that there is no such thing as fate,

But only chance until a voiceless thing

Proves otherwise.  A voiceless unshaped force

Possesses with an angel demon wing

Your lungs as if it comes from God, its source.

  The meaning of the universe is free.

    It chooses silent serendipity.

© Phillip Whidden