Fish In Dark Lake © Surazeus 2023 05 16 Whatever you choose to think about me still happens entirely inside your head like fish in dark lake where I never swim. Dull sorrow of silverware in dry grass relinquishes compassion on torn wings across confusing plains of Idaho. Cold waves of sweet indifferent attitude reluctantly crawl over rancid mud to calculate distance between mind states. They look away from faceless ghost of who shot by stray bullet in blue evening light while driving to the grocery store of faith. She smiles with beauty for the photograph that captures essence of elusive faith at falling of the devil from his tower. I have no country but the open book that floats in water of abandoned tub still sailing homeward on the anguished sea. I turn down rubbled street in search for bread while angels born from lust of nevermore watch me behind thin curtains of contempt. I shovel sorrow of the eglantine with red dirt in the gaping mouth of time to engineer how language defines fate. Detribalized by bankers charging tax, I journey nowhere to the Promised Land while singing in the bleak Missouri rain. I wait outside the empty church of fear to pray for salvation from the blind god who disappears in words of bleeding books. Soft velvet cover for the book of poems elides efficient truths of holy wars so slaves become acquainted with the night. Still lonely on stark crag of Scottish hills, she watches me with eyes of glowing moss so green beneath the silver fairy pool. The laughing puppet of authority declares we shall not talk about the weather so we talk about crimes of the proud tyrant. She lowers bucket in the wishing well but finds no treasure, except bleeding star which silences loud voice of the mad seer. The last tomato of the third world war flies toward cracked windshield of the racing car which transforms into the arrogant horse. Whatever I choose to think about you still happens entirely inside my head like fish in dark lake where you always swim.
Surazeus Astarius Συράζευς Αστάριος. Cartographer. Epic Poet. Hermead epic poem about Philosophers 126,680 lines of blank verse. http://tinyurl.com/AstarianScriptures
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