Riddles Of The Why © Surazeus 2026 05 30 I like to float on wordless breath of thought as I pretend my soul cannot be bought, though children chasing shadows in the woods leave broken dreams in doorless neighborhoods, so I lie prone on couch of innocence to plot new revolution of good sense. I take my face off when the moon returns to look for lost book among rain-wet ferns since elevators drop me to my day because I still refuse the right to pray with fervent faith to no one in the sky who never answers riddles of the why. I want to make Sarmatia great again but I cannot find my gold fountain pen to write about how Queen Amage fought invaders with the sword her wisdom wrought that gleams invisible inside my heart with love for Alba and her apple cart. My heart resides in hills of Avalon though I was born in vale of Oregon so I hitchhike back east on signless road that leads me to dark lake of the God Toad who teaches me to play the Hermean lyre that channels energy of soul desire. When I row boat across the sloshing sea to forest where the white crow with glass key reveals strange secret of the golden flower that blooms from sorrow in the doorless tower, I legislate the sacred right to vote for global savior on the floating boat. We struggle to survive since hour of birth through strategic fight to control the Earth by constructing food-production machine designed to favor all by Melusine who guides my heart with riddles of the why so I project my god face at blue sky. My global revolution of good sense inspires brave souls still stuck in reticence to risk calm state of their healthy life style by tricking Satan with the clever guile concerning strict obedience to the law though we try to evade the lethal jaw. Desire to live beyond death of the soul drives fierce fanatics to attain this goal by grasping vainly at ethereal wind that misdirects the greedy king who sinned by smashing palace where First Ladies dwell so I throw snake runes in the dreamless well.
Surazeus Astarius Συράζευς Αστάριος. Cartographer. Epic Poet. Hermead epic poem about Philosophers 126,680 lines of blank verse. http://tinyurl.com/AstarianScriptures
Orpheus manages reconstruction of the East Wing of the White House from crystal bones of beautiful angels fallen from Heaven that does not exist.
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