Museum Of The Broken Mask © Surazeus 2025 10 04 If I feel the sudden impulse to sing, I will scatter my bones in the wheat field where no one but the sad scarecrow has walked more than three hundred years of social change so elves and nymphs may spring from fertile soil to dance at the Super Bowl halftime show. If my spirit animal would appear to teach me secret of physical space, I might design the factories and ships my brothers could use to conquer the world using the Mercator projection map to sail straight across the sea to new shores. I sail the blue boat of my aching heart across the future shameful sea of faith to study hunger of the human soul through psychic resonator of concern by smuggling treasures of lost empires home to stock museum of the broken mask. Reluctant to perform as optimist, I like awake beneath the starless sky, and count the humans living on this globe who leave their faces hanging on home doors as we design new theories about hope for children who draw visions at dark schools. Yet no one listens to the desert god who howls solemn hymns on the radio in preparation for the next world war that we must fight against cruel oligarchs who charge taxes for water and sunlight so we eat stew of bones and bitter truths. Though if feels as if the rocks and the clouds are also dying through weird social change, we call each other on the telephone that translates voices into ocean waves, so we drive across the country of hope to listen to our blind god sing the blues. Lost in rugged hills of integrity where pine trees discuss old philosophy, we find wind-erased tomb of the first god, whom men once worshipped on the ziggurat, who welcomed homeless migrants to the feast, except the witch who lingers on the bridge. Connected by network of singing wires, that weave old prophecies in movie plots, we crowd museum of the broken mask where ravens gather on idols of gods though every human in America goes fishing on the river of glass skulls.
Surazeus Astarius Συράζευς Αστάριος. Cartographer. Epic Poet. Hermead epic poem about Philosophers 126,680 lines of blank verse. http://tinyurl.com/AstarianScriptures
Orpheus contemplates the mystery of the universe as he scrolls through photos he took in the museum of the broken mask while he fishes on the Mississippi River shore.
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