Leave Bones Of My Mother © Surazeus 2026 06 01 If I consider how orange sunset glow explodes as flowers in my pulsing brain, I might fall in love with your timeless eyes that understand strange beauty of this world and value unseen essence of its vibes, yet I do not exist in pageless books. While I wander nowhere in flaming woods I gather words people lose from their tongues when they escape catastrophe of time since angels deconstruct their precious worlds because we are no longer real as stones smoothed by the endless flow of bitter tears. I leave bones of my mother in the land where I was born from sparkle of dawn rain when I flee alone on the signless road with nothing in my hands but sticky dirt I scattered on her body without prayers because she no longer exists as light. My mind is nothing more than passing cloud that haunts my nothingness of urgent hope with mutant shadow of the eyeless sun, so I continue walking somewhere else as I pretend to live with wounded heart to prove I am not real as words in books. Trees offer bounty of indifferent care, so I take gift of wisdom from their limbs, then sit by laughing river of respect where I consume sweet fruit of bitter hate to taste revenge I cannot execute because I disappear in wordless fate. Discarded scraps of precious memories fall from my hands and clatter on the ground, which fractures sheen of safety I once felt so I am zero that time calculates through fraudulent formula of desire which deflects force of psychic energy. Another soul that dissipates in wind accelerates new count of circumstance my brain attempts with weird seraphic code of faith that helps decipher manic spell to readjust projection we assert though misdirection of the ocean wind. With sticks and stones that bruise my naive heart I build enormous palace of state power enclosing garden of the apple tree to guard my secret family from harm who waits for me to kill the snake of lies because we do not exist in your mind.
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, June 1, 2026
Leave Bones Of My Mother
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Orpheus explains to visitors to the Museum of Zarathia why he does not exist except as shadow of words in the ever-changing labyrinth of their minds.
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