Museum Of Idols That Cry © Surazeus 2026 03 01 Alive in drafty castle of my heart, I play both king and dragon of desire within the frame of fables liars built to credit those who provide them with food with miracles no human could perform till my white horse drowns in river of change. Eager to reclaim my inheritance, hidden near the River Gyndes by time, I leave behind this land of broken dreams which my ancestors invaded with greed, but everywhere I go in this world now new people live on my ancestral lands. When he plucks out my heart with hungry hope to find what syncopates our fertile love, he breaks its clock of passionate desire which cuts taut chord of our mutual song so now I cannot articulate well trust shattered by aggressive lust to own. Indestructible ship of my brave heart, shackled to the creaking dock of desire, wrenches at ropes of duty to assert right to sail pulsing waves of curious faith, but blinding passion for treasure regained traps my wingless soul in fake fairy tales. Bright flame that licks and fawns at mirror mind with merciless respect for wordless smiles, throws fish of my heart back in the wild sea, so I ascend Arctic mountains of hope to sell costumes for my outdated selves to faceless ghosts of famous movie stars. Sinuous orchids in gardens of skulls shelter refugees from exploding bombs who dream of clear water hiding pure gems, though I mail my book of forgotten lore to willow witch behind the theater whose bodiless owl understands my tricks. Yet pitchforked farmer in lush daisied field struggles through blackthorn thicket of concern to nine-pooled fen where swirling mist conceals wounded god who clutches turtle-shell lyre while declaring this vale of tears is his to build museum of idols that cry. I marvel at the brutal nonchalance of Mother Nature who creates our souls from tangled sunrays of hazardous hope with racketing flux of religious faith that taunts our fake heroes to prove themselves by ransacking libraries of dead gods.
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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Sunday, March 1, 2026
Museum Of Idols That Cry
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Orpheus finds Sylvia gathering blackberries along the River Gyndes where they wade together in shallow waters of the secret desire to understand.
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