Fugitives From Modern Times © Surazeus 2025 06 11 Though blind ghosts of faith, hope, and charity haunt leafless forest of my word-chained heart, confounding vision of the sacred truth that glimmers with alluring fantasy, I wander lost beyond the Afterlife, drowning in waves of perceptible space. No monstrous evil possesses my mind with ache of absence from the restless wind that casts bleak shadows on pictureless walls to highlight center of my heated cause, untwisted by murderous breath of fate less healing than smart pain of innocence. Still wounded in faint shadow of dread snow, I feel your absence haunt my hollow heart with fragments of false memories we share despite state doctrine we should always care long after furious blowing of hot wind that drenches oak-treed neighborhoods in fear. If our hearts throb at sudden flash of truth when we turn on artificial room lights, we my remember why we cling to hope with fierce intensity to fragile rope that dangles frame of flesh above the deep since sacred relics are not ours to keep. Still prodigal of light till end of time, I feign indifference to this piteous state marked by the crooked spite of honesty because we think this wicked world is right, conceived from sweetness of selfless regret, though stranded by the misty lake at dawn. Unwound by frantic clock of Nevertime, our names on headstones by the empty church yield stories of our lives to elements erasing memory of our consciousness which dispels rumor of immortality through desolation of the hungry hour. Agrarian principles of desolate faith compel the fugitives from modern times to seek faint solace in lush fields of oaks where grass blooms rich from corpses of dead souls who beg uncomfortable angels for facts which recalculate road to paradise. Chipped wing of the stone angel, who knows why organic bodies bloom and then decay, extends protective services of faith through twilight uncertainty of brave hope to pray important shrift of timeless death for rancid circumstance of charity.
Surazeus Astarius Συράζευς Αστάριος. Cartographer. Epic Poet. Hermead epic poem about Philosophers 126,680 lines of blank verse. http://tinyurl.com/AstarianScriptures
Orpheus joins the fugitives for a picnic in the forest of oaks by the river not yet polluted by factories of oligarchs who exploit the poor for wealth.
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