Fairy Tales Of Why © Surazeus 2025 02 28 Conceptual difference between falling rain and stone walls human hands erect with fear divides my mind with ocular respect, so I rejoice in spinning of the Earth that tangles my heart in telephone lines till I grow fraught wings from my wounded heart. If we consider the best way to start chanting magic spells the blind crow defines, we might discover that each soul is worth more than our visual looks or intellect, as if we cannot feel the ghost glow near enough to vibrate in tune with our pain. Stark vision billowing from exhaust pipes of cars rumbling down snow-encrusted roads glows bright with faces of long-dead monarchs who ruled their empires with insight and rage in cruel relentless chess game with blind death who always wins every humanized game. Every year I invent myself new name so I can speak through my old mask with breath that shadows spirit of the fox on stage who runs with elegant grace in state parks, then guides lost pilgrims to pond of wise toads where immortal grandson of Hamlet types. Yet smiling nurse in clinic by the lake tenderly cares for children without souls who ask with innocent voice of despair if they will be able to live long and well so she howls with sorrow in stormy wind at unfair randomness of mindless fate. When we explore our wild deserted state, while wearing dresses dead grandmothers send, I smile that brittlebush blossoms in hell, which does not prove that Jesus might care to gather brickleberries in clay bowls with noble intention to bake us cake. Tall ocotillo that knows why I cry comforts me with song of the cactus wren who refuses to accept lame excuse I offer that I cannot love myself because my mother harshly judged my lack of common sense with bitter words of love. I turn my face up to Heaven above where I see nothing but clouds in huge stack of contemptuous disdain for my bookshelf that bears books about both Jesus and Zeus, so I replace them all with poems about Zen which should explicate Fairy Tales of Why.
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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Friday, February 28, 2025
Fairy Tales Of Why
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Orpheus finds Ophelia crying by the ocotillo, so he hugs her and they stroll together among the blooming brittlebush by the river.
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