Summer Tree Of Tongues © Surazeus 2025 11 17 If owls still wail before old fathers die, I should walk windswept road of dancing trees to find the house I built collapsed in rain when rage erases beauty from the sky, though I hide wingless angels in my eye because they seek to understand the why. Cloud-stippled wings of thunder-laughing crows beat urgently against hole of my face since sharp words spoken by the shadow ghost targets my heart with ubiquitous faith that God attends my fortune with bold plan which cripples my ability to play. Mysterious beauty of the singing stone attracts attention of the nameless girl who pauses search for blueberries and eggs to ask the crow in summer tree of tongues why no one seems to understand her words as if their souls are water of the lake. So she leans close to study flower blooms where bees buzz languidly in shimmer-thought for simple concept of possessive fate contained in promises of falling rain that still reminds her why she needs to know how human bodies pulse with energy. If she explores dark chambers of the sea with hazardous assertion that time swirls, she fears frail hope will shatter at the strike of supple wings old butterflies consign to sighs of happiness from casual waves despite allowance for excited ploy. Our perfect voices blend with radiant choirs in company of sudden ringing spite that leaves our bodies throbbing on hot sand when we embrace in tangled hope of love though we sink wordlessly in liquid gloom to escape hollow duty of the tomb. Trapped by terrible silence of respect that blesses lonely hearts with fortitude, we sell each other lies for eggs and gems based on capacity of hearts to know glamor of lies from grittiness of truth, delicate with frantic friendship of faith. Distraught with heartless majesty of angst, we store our precious relics in our hearts to prove we grow beyond obsessive game our parents teach us to play so we gain plaintive glitter of earnest ardency when I rebuild home with paternal bones.
Surazeus Astarius Συράζευς Αστάριος. Cartographer. Epic Poet. Hermead epic poem about Philosophers 126,680 lines of blank verse. http://tinyurl.com/AstarianScriptures
Orpheus and Ophelia find each other in the forest of singing stones, so they share stories and food as they sit by the lake in moon-white twilight and kiss.
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