Hole Of Finite Thought © Surazeus 2026 03 30 Because death collapses time in my head with sudden nothingness of the bright soul, I ponder what the living do each day to ignore the fact that we all will die, then I fish on shore of the singing lake and eat its roasted meat under weird stars. Framed in my unfurling future, I feel exaggerated vastness stretching time long enough to catch me before I fall, thwarted by excessive passion to live when I evade cruel death by accident in close proximity to sudden hope. Morning light of each new day after death arrives with bright elusive flash of faith that blinds my mind with truth beyond all words at sharpened thrill of opened aperture that strikes me with expected solitude so I float far alone on waves of where. Undetermined moment of someday soon, when I will cease to be awake with buzz of frantic energy to taste sweet fire, tethers tight my heart to silence of wind, hidden in scroll of lost voices by quill plucked from demonic wing of innocence. Brave enough with fractured luck of respect, I confront absence of my nameless self by calling phone number of my dead clone who answers with strange voice of ocean waves, but I become mad raven with three eyes that hangs out on the sad telephone line. So I avoid speaking in my own voice with assiduous intent to detach my body from lush fields of sparkling lakes where birds tweet love songs in flower-flame trees, because my being is hole of finite thought around which nothing radiates in blind gloom. Despite personal investment of hope, I stand in spotlight on stage of despair and drink milk of angels from burning clouds that pour from my eyes in fountains of tears which nourishes eight billion hungry souls while I float on surging sea of desire. My happiness fills shadow of my heart with sudden nothingness of silent death that blows bright rainbow darkness of my eyes open wide enough to become each star that twinkles in vast galaxies of souls while beneath every city my heart beats.
Surazeus Astarius Συράζευς Αστάριος. Cartographer. Epic Poet. Hermead epic poem about Philosophers 126,680 lines of blank verse. http://tinyurl.com/AstarianScriptures
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Monday, March 30, 2026
Hole Of Finite Thought
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Orpheus strums lyre of Mercury to lead dead souls down to shore of the lake where they become fish we catch and roast over the evening picnic fire.
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