Every House I Leave © Surazeus 2024 10 27 In sixty years of my life on this Earth I have lived in fifty houses, at least, so shimmering fragment of my time-stretched soul remains stuck in wall of each domicile so I feel myself spread across the land in quivering thread of fragile memory. With mixture of sadness and humor, taut with mute affection for each lonely house, I slouch benumbed against clean painted wall of where I now live, safe in turtle shell of sheltering hope, and whisper each address to map my random journey anywhere. Faint shimmering shell of each house where I lived merges with all the rest in single frame of social reference fixing fluid force of my aggressive soul in tomb of truth that I am transient flame of consciousness which flickers with clock-tick of glowing joy. Light of my happiness glows in each house, fueled by fraught energy of psychic gloom that springs from hollow hunger of my heart, so passion of despair nurtures my joy to shelter safe in walls of solitude, trapped in prison of my fortunate choice. I keep the keys of my prisoning home in my own pocket, linked with magic ring that renders me invisible to Death, safe from bitter Pain who stalks city streets with vampire thirst for lonely homeless souls who haunt light beaming from half-open doors. Dropping key to each house where I once lived in hand of Fear, still demanding back rent, I walk the signless road of everywhere past millions of houses in countless towns that glow in the dark sea to shining sea as I traverse the waste land of despair. I never return back down roads I walked, never return to houses where I lived, for I am always going forward, far beyond walls of paradise I escaped, housed for a while along the endless way of golden opportunity through Hell. I write my name and paint my changing face with invisible paint on the blank wall of this house where I happen to live now, which glows as portrait in museum hall beside all the other faces of souls who also lived in every house I leave.
Surazeus Astarius Συράζευς Αστάριος. Cartographer. Epic Poet. Hermead epic poem about Philosophers 126,680 lines of blank verse. http://tinyurl.com/AstarianScriptures
Orpheus maps every house where he has lived on the time-animated global atlas of world history to understand the pointless randomness of his journey anywhere.
ReplyDelete