Wicked World Right © Surazeus 2023 12 26 When gray clouds shroud our world in gloom, and wet brown leaves on towering oaks hang listless far below eternity, small flock of deer gather in my backyard, glaring at me lit gold in large bay window, to play tense drama of their social scene. The young buck with four-pointed horns adjourns three young does behind the rotting fence to browse on tender leaves of apple trees, but charges the younger buck who escapes, stares at me as I photograph their game, then herds them across the leaf-plastered street. Trotting with tense caution among tall oaks, Cernunnos guides his does across house lawns who lurch and trot around reindeer and sled, carved from wood, when another car glides by, startled into bold defiance by beams of headlights which terrify the gloom. Dim light of heaven glowing through tall oaks fades into stark silver of timeless fear that waits for some faceless monster to strike, but silence wins by lingering in dim shadows without perilous despair of street lamps that refract divine light through sprinkling mist. Invisible in silver evening glow beyond tangled web of leafless oak limbs, the mellow moon hides her delicate face behind cold veil of mist that wets my face with aching sorrow of the signless road where nameless travelers drive somewhere else. I see no ghosts of refugees from wars, who follow Moses on cold desert roads to escape jungles where gangs of thieves reign, invade this neighborhood with hungry hope, so I look up at ancient towering oaks to see if they have found home with the crows. Though only flocks of deer, squirrels, and crows dwell in winter-wet dusk of Spiderwood, weird moonlight that makes this wicked world right illuminates large sprawling red-brick homes that dot wild rugged hills of ancient oaks where people hide from shadow of the dusk. Face lit by lightbulb of the secret moon, I gaze from glowing comfort of my home at faceless ghosts who wander spooky woods of ancient oaks with secrets they conceal, and feel timeless beauty of paradise pulse from core of this dream world I create.
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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