Our Mortality © Surazeus 2025 03 14 Though stars shine on the stretch of snowy road which I follow to the ends of the Earth, I savor strange miracle of being alive as conscious clump of random particles that blink bright as the lonely traffic light without concern for our mortality. Though I smell odor of the evening rain that opens portal to another world, I walk through shadow of the humming oak to gather acorns from the dusty road so I can can hear people in the church sing without concern for our mortality. Though I walk backward up the abstract stairs to analyze their function without form, I understand new symbol of lost faith contained in tulips in the fractured vase which invade sorrow with beauty of pain without concern for our mortality. Though leaves float proudly on the flowing stream with subtle lightness of the careful breeze, I ask the mushroom toad with rainbow eyes where all my faceless relatives have gone who vanished at the screaming flash of dawn without concern for our mortality. Though time refracts in dreamless eyes of hope delinquent signal of my pulsing soul, I borrow naked innocence from Death, pretending to be cloud in clumsy form caught in rapid orbit of puzzling words without concern for our mortality. Though I want to play meadow bull of strength who rules the world with haughty arrogance, I feel more like the newly-hatched sea turtle that races toward the moon inside the sea then swims with awkward grace in tumbling waves without concern for our mortality. Though random shadows of the mountain lurk on airplane wings above the holy world, I carry bag of dirt from my hometown while traveling west across houseless prairies to heap it by the river where I die without concern for our mortality. Though we make angels in the sparkling snow before bombs blow our homes to smithereens, we write our stories in library books that no one reads for twenty thousand years so we catch stars in snowflakes of the mind without concern for our mortality.
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, March 14, 2025
Our Mortality
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Orpheus rearranges library books with the stories of our lives every day till Ungod becomes concerned about our mortality.
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