Faceless Ghosts Of Faith © Surazeus 2025 07 12 When the red skimmer dragonfly alights on edge of my book to gaze in my eyes and seek the true facts about my weird life, I sell nostalgia to the hungry souls who seek to understand the precious thoughts that drive me mad with wisdom of the sky. Souls of all my ancestors in one ghost wind clock-spring cobwebs of my dreamless mind to unfreeze undulating wheel of time which teaches my heart wisdom of old pain with creak of wings that crack idol of faith too like my fake face carved in effigy. Stuck in the Garden called Gethsemane with the cup of sorrow I wish to drink, I give my twisted heart to my true love who reaches down into the underworld to grasp my hand and lift me from my doom so we can drink and dance on rain-wet grass. Thus I unthink the roaming storm of fear that wanders carelessly across our land wrecking destruction of uncertainty when people swim in sudden flood of truth that washes all we built far out to sea where we become fish skeletons of death. Yet, calm in sturdy riverboat of faith, I glide across the waveless gleam of light that shimmers clear with glass of ancient minds frustrated that dark shadows of desire writhe still concealed in books of holy writ which bloom as apple trees from muddy shores. Out of that empty sky our eyes fall slow with snowflake dizziness of anguished hope for metaphysic birds from humble hills unfolding endless pages of new books that help us center our wild hearts with love in piles of leaves that rustle in the breeze. Bent over chessboard of world history, I note how kings maneuver gangs of thieves while I play blindfolded against kind Death who shows me angels on telephone poles hung from electric wires of ardency through voices from the faceless ghosts of faith. Stuck in the hell loop of my random life, reliving every moment when I failed to play standard role of obedient fool, I tear off black robe of false penitence and dance with wild abandon of the lost when I find myself deep inside my heart.
Surazeus Astarius Συράζευς Αστάριος. Cartographer. Epic Poet. Hermead epic poem about Philosophers 126,680 lines of blank verse. http://tinyurl.com/AstarianScriptures
Translate
Saturday, July 12, 2025
Faceless Ghosts Of Faith
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Orpheus drinks wine as he watches home movies of his childhood in Olympus that shows Apollo trying to teach him to play the lyre while Aphrodite dumps mud on his head and laughs.
ReplyDelete