Weirdness Of Eternal Now © Surazeus 2026 06 09 Through tight control of intermittent thoughts we wind disparate memories in spheres of flashing strategies to burn god stones with tattered pages from ancestral books so prior tests we dare contrive from code enchant our hearts when sad nightingales sing. While sitting blindly in windowless house with numberless door of inequity, I roam the whole universe of strange lands though tethered to fragile skull of my soul since gushing mountain river piles logs high against enormous stone of innocence. Slouched by unkempt grave of the famous seer who harvested peaches from tangled trees, I mutter prayer of sorrow to his mask to checklist deeds I refuse to perform through mechanism of uncertain grief that covers me in random leaves of hope. No star-eyed visitors appear from mist, seeking redemption from gratified corpse to highlight uselessness of sentiment that could not resurrect my pardoned heart from graceless circumstance of fortitude, since love might manifest in dormant seeds. Could I return from underworld of faith with contract that impacts my credit score, I would sail leaking boat across dark sea to harrow blatant sense of urgency with greatness death displays at crack of dawn when everything I knew as true is wrong. Up jagged cliff of ambition I climb against assertive gusts of lonely wind to count bright sparkles on the silver sea by wishing goodness for each soul alive who walks alone the signless road of fate to prove people can govern themselves well. Inspired to extract my body from roots of ancient trees, I breathe faith to express despair we deny pierces hearts with truth despite our vow at picnic by the lake to savor weirdness of eternal now by drinking sorrow brewed in bitter herbs. I seek sublimity of perfect thoughts that swell at suddenness of your sharp eyes beaming subtle blast of rainbow bliss with cheerful jubilation gladly struck in harmony of love we blithely share with brokenhearted document of faith.
Surazeus Astarius Συράζευς Αστάριος. Cartographer. Epic Poet. Hermead epic poem about Philosophers 126,680 lines of blank verse. http://tinyurl.com/AstarianScriptures
Orpheus searches for ghost of John Keats in the grove of fruit trees where a thousand nightingales used to sing, but they all seem to have disappeared.
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