Homes Where I Belong Not © Surazeus 2024 12 04 Softly the day retains its gratitude that Death is floating blindly in warm light this winter morning of ardent respect we share for translating alien dreams for voices of the wind in falling leaves that reveals portrait of the world we love. With congregation on the astral plane, we tell each other what we value most, then sell our stories on the internet to strangers who want to play someone else, till we no longer recognize ourselves reflected in the pool where Echo mourns. To brood on wetness of the psychic zone, regardless of how it affects my grades, I float on my back on the ocean wave to feel bright angels of the abyss glow with eyes that see beyond eternity which helps me understand my aching heart. Mouth open to taste the infinite sky, I research history of the elegy elusive with code of manners decried at shocking rudeness of the good to die, and bleed their holiness on the church floor when Icarus stumbles trying to get up. Outwitted by Death with each game we play, I relax on the beach with glass of juice and contemplate the strangeness of pure light which our ancestors thought had consciousness, blind with obscene scene on the screen unseen based on the arbitrariness of truth. When the angel of truth stays at my house, she leaves her memories in the old shoe box after discarding my hopes in the fireplace, then pours milk in the glass, but stares alone out every window at secrets I hide, then abandons me to fake happiness. More fickle than sad savior of the world, I prophesy what no one wants to hear, naming land where I live Zarathia so I can say I am no immigrant, though I keep wandering sea to shining sea, leaving behind homes where I belong not. Still confident that my weird songs ring true, I skip with Louise on the signless road, eager to perform in the next small town our cute Shepherdess and Clown in Love play, but gunshots ring across the treeless plain, and she works in the factory today.
Surazeus Astarius Συράζευς Αστάριος. Cartographer. Epic Poet. Hermead epic poem about Philosophers 126,680 lines of blank verse. http://tinyurl.com/AstarianScriptures
Orpheus asks Louise in the lunch room why she always cries, so she shows him a photo of her and her dead husband from their vaudeville days.
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