Yet Still We Die © Surazeus 2023 08 14 Fame is just as disconcertingly weird as I feared it would be. The novelist stares at crowds of strangers outside bookstores who shout with voices of wolves for his soul. Still shattered from the day his house burned down, he tries to hide in shadow of the door. Though he takes on himself sincerity, he fails at climbing promise of great fame, because he tries to make kingdom of truth from the tragic horrors of life he saw. Each house he builds on river of desire contains but nameless ghosts he leaves behind. Though vision of this world his mind designs, and action duty requires he perform, never synchronize with beat of his heart, yet he drafts list of rules for membership in the doom club, since times in which we live are never wrong or right. Yet still we die. His wandering figure in the timeless scene is never reconciled with purchased hope that rots in swamps of uncomfortable truth. Devoted chronicler of ironies, too great for journalists to analyze, the novelist records fate fooled by fame. He is no man against the empty sky though he tries to wear the lost mask of god to the party where the powerful grin with bloody teeth. Yet still he wants to map sunlit labyrinth of pain we must walk to find the affable despair we need. Because he is the lonely resident for life in the wrong world his mind designs, he chooses to make music that enchants sorrow-clouded minds of lost refugees with glorious revelation of his heart that glows still in torch of freedom he bears. If we wish to evade apocalypse of global warming, that sends hurricanes smashing national pride with bitter faith, then we should read his holy prophecies which describe true ontology of being that we are conscious swirls of chemicals. The truth about our world is what I say, declares the novelist with one good eye who drinks sweet ginger tea with chocolate, then watches meteors streak across the sky to announce second coming of the fool who wants to save the Earth from humankind.
Surazeus Astarius Συράζευς Αστάριος. Cartographer. Epic Poet. Hermead epic poem about Philosophers 126,680 lines of blank verse. http://tinyurl.com/AstarianScriptures
Monday, August 14, 2023
Yet Still We Die
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