When Rain Unfalls Itself © Surazeus 2026 03 03 Before the door that is not in the woods I listen to the voice that does not speak about painful sorrow I cannot feel, so I walk without moving nowhere else till I arrive at the town by the lake where no one builds houses with garden walls. When I look at people who are not there and ask them questions about nothing more they never explain the rules of their lives so I make nothing with tools of my hands and fly without wings on breath of false hope to map the houses that are never real. I walk forever on the signless road and think about events that never happen to fill my basket with never-bloomed fruit while waiting for the world to never turn when rain unfalls itself to empty skies that reflect featureless face of Ungod. I cannot describe what anything is because words entangle my heart with lies so I meditate on the hive of bees while discarding my thoughts on summer breeze that wafts my fragile body among clouds above colorless realm of ideal forms. Behind the door that is not by the sea I observe the waves that do not unscroll vast tapestry that depicts nothingness embodied by people who have no names while they wander bridge of forgetfulness till they get tired of losing every game. During total eclipse of the blood moon billions of people assemble in halls and sing hymns to their great ancestral god depicted by the idol on the stage that never opens divine eyes of truth nor ever speaks to grant their fervent prayers. Their long-forgotten gods wake from strange dreams and gather in the ring of humming stones to complain about faithful worshippers who never seek to become their real selves because they all wear same mask of their god with desperate fear that life will be destroyed. I eat peanut butter with apple sauce at the small round table in my brick house, then drink angel-blood milk of calm belief that beautiful songs are born from mute grief, so I open the door to everywhere to visit each world in the multiverse.
Surazeus Astarius Συράζευς Αστάριος. Cartographer. Epic Poet. Hermead epic poem about Philosophers 126,680 lines of blank verse. http://tinyurl.com/AstarianScriptures
Orpheus paints face of Ophelia on the door that is not there in the woods of infinite impossibilities.
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