Garden Of Dead Books © Surazeus 2025 04 10 Too much combustion of the ardent kiss leaves us stranded in garden of dead books, poison of love stinging our eyes with trust as we create ideal lover from hope in masks we wear to keep us interested in constant fever of the flowering moon. Remote from malice of the naive tree, our bodies are yoked to fountain of secrets which traps us in gold cage of honesty as our hearts transform each dagger-sharp word to seeds that heal excessive wounds of faith with each heart-rending howl of hungry hope. We zigzag through reckless maze of our hearts with untamed horse of hope that fools our eyes, amazed by vapor of untruth that veils death, invented by metallic tongues of fear in time to catch the falling star of fate which discombobulates our marriage vows. Beneath the hazardous tree of despair, where we find shelter from the evening storm, we gather black feathers of ravens to weave new pairs of wings for our hearts to attain freedom from gravity of arrogant hate while waterfalls erase our souls from time. Shadow of horror transforms into swan who soars into thundering clouds of rage to strip our minds from garments of false faith when sunset rays stipple lake of our hearts with vibrant passion we cannot deny since we keep on kissing reluctantly. Fallen into flood of terrified tears, we feel our bodies transform into stones exploding with children of eager hope who carry that concept in trembling hands to retrieve our bodies from tangled roots of trees that scream owls of eternity. Huddled after rain on the river shore, beneath the willow that will never die, we tell each other we will be all right because we hide our stories in the book that sits unread for twenty thousand years on hidden shelf in library of ghosts. We cannot own the field that bears our names except when we bury with trembling hands bones of our ancestors in unfenced soil so carrots and corn may grow from their brains to provide nutrition for fragile bodies supported by framework of unborn hope.
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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Thursday, April 10, 2025
Garden Of Dead Books
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Orpheus and Ophelia rip tangled vines and wild plants from the field of bones to create a garden of organized crops in the wilderness of fake hope.
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