Weird Map Of Everwick © Surazeus 2025 08 10 If we return to town of Everwick, where horses graze in shady yew-tree groves, we may feast by the sparkling sea of time to sense how water flows with endless hope till flash of insight from the boundless sky enlightens heavy hearts with sacred truth. I read strange stories of humanity while gazing in the river-book of fate to dream long record of assertive faith performed by spirits of the ancient dead who wander lonely streets of Everwick to replay tragedies of honest folk. With fiery hue of rainbows in their eyes ghosts of my ancestors watch me perform relentless progress of ascending power while I walk endless circles every day to chase swift star-eyed fairies of desire who scatter dust in streets of Everwick. Still nestled safe in bushes of respect on misty shore beside the stream of light, I draw in dust weird map of Everwick where gods play chess with helpless human souls who hunt for demons in the yew-tree groves while elves sing haunting melodies of hope. Mute in yew groves near town of Everwick, we hear the spectral singing of the moon that highlights beauty of the human face which masks demonic energy of lust to generate new life before we die, therefore we sing with hope to empty skies. Crows caw in cheery silence after dawn while mushrooms sprout from rotten flesh of hope as I dissolve in glow of intense light till voices humming with observant fear echo softly from streets of Everwick which wakes me from the soundless drowning dream. I flit between opposing states of mind, assertively active with happy hope or introspectively passive and sad, in rapid ricochet of wretched ruth, and thus create fierce fortune of my fate with each helplessly random choice I make. With bleeding hands of frantic joy for life I construct stone towers of Everwick where I guard heaven of its garden homes one thousand years of restless loyalty where ghost of my obsession to survive remains in breeze that rustles yew-tree leaves.
Surazeus Astarius Συράζευς Αστάριος. Cartographer. Epic Poet. Hermead epic poem about Philosophers 126,680 lines of blank verse. http://tinyurl.com/AstarianScriptures
Orpheus strolls the busy streets of York to find the lost-long groves of yew trees where he once played heart-haunting ballads for the Fairy Queen at the moon-lit feast on midsummer nights.
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