Fragments Of Frail Faith © Surazeus 2025 03 31 When the storm of electric innocence blows over our home in dense Raven Wood I hear laughter of Ungod in blue sky howl with cruel mockery at human pride, so I glare mute at Jupiter or Zeus, and grin that my fathers gave storms weird names. I peer in shadows of gold afternoon to see the faceless ghosts of souls long dead that glow with wisdom of experience, so I try to decode their wordless pain to understand grim sorrow of their loss which people still suffer in every age. Broken tree limbs of twisted memories crash into the yards of hope-haunted homes that chill our hearts with specter of decay as despair coagulates in crippled form that crawls across debris of our world view, tangled in rotten beauty of our faith. Emerging from shattered shelter of trust, we gather fractured fragments of frail faith decontextualized from established framework as long-accepted information memes disconnected from firm matrix of truth that exposes its artificial structure.
Monday, March 31, 2025
Fragments Of Frail Faith
Dolphin Of My Heart
Dolphin Of My Heart © Surazeus 2025 03 31 Between Arion and Jonah I would be the prophet whose enchanting song of truth inspires wave-leaping spirits of the sea to bear me safely to the shore with ruth because the light of greatness does not fade though our bodies dissolve into the shade. When I am cast on brutal shore of fate, where nightingales have far too long been mute, old Delphic spirit begging at the gate still sings heart-wrenching ballads less than cute, reviving my Muse from grave of my heart so I sing new tales not on her old chart. The nightingale, once singing in the night, regales war refugees on signless roads, while the mockingbird, disdaining clear light, teaches all who cannot sing, birds and toads, how to imitate their own secret voice so they feel they are free to make the choice. If I extract wild spirit from my head, I could fly high on quick angelic wings to purview our world with eye of calm dread employed by the free bird who always sings visions of truth that reveal the real world through ontology of the cosmic herald. Though all-silencing Death attempts to quell cry of the heart for justice, strict yet fair, adjudicating crimes punished by Hell, we will rise bold to sing courageous prayer for every soul alive on this great land to live through freedom of the Giving Hand. Whether I am swallowed by the white whale, and then commissioned by voice of the sky to proclaim retribution of the Scale, or borne by the dolphin as Music spy, I shall in either case record the truth with honest spirit of messiah sleuth. Perched on Arionian dolphin of my heart, I strum the lyre of Mercury with faith that, if I follow guidance of her chart, Athena will help me transform the wraith of social anguish from demon to god as loyal member of her justice squad. Though I now float lost on wild ocean tide, which fierce Poseidon hurls at shore of hope, the star-eyed Muse, always my loving guide, sends dolphin of my heart to help me cope, so with bold courage of her humble sage I sing for justice on the global stage.
Sunday, March 30, 2025
House Of Every Ghost
House Of Every Ghost © Surazeus 2025 03 30 When swirling snowflakes freeze into the house where every human in the world has lived, I approach wavering illusion of hope to observe drama of their lives play out in ghostly shadows of wordless desire, but cannot open the doors of their graves. Easy laughter rattles windows of time with unearned urgency of unkempt class that scatters puzzle pieces on wood floors to clutter stage of graceful tragedy since cracks that let the light of hope get in cannot conceal meaninglessness of life. Writing names of ghosts on new-blooming leaves, I whisper secret cipher that conceals stories of their lives in weird archetypes so Death can never find them in the room where they arrange photos of memories in graphic novels that sprout raven wings. Though I walk the signless road of everywhere ten thousand years from sea to shining sea, I never see another ghost like me with eyes that depict islands in the sea where every ancestor who wove my genes walks forever on beach of singing waves. I ponder how with branches of fruit trees I might encrypt conceptual memories in cosmic archetypes of normal things through sacred letters of the alphabet that writhe across snow with serpentine grace reserved for scientific formulas. Footprints of ghosts in ever-falling snow lead me to giant hall of steel and glass, far grander than Valhalla of my heart, where twenty thousand hungry troubadours sell each other books of their prophecies that hint at sorrow of domestic scenes. Assembled in hall of fairy-tale books that record enchanting tales of romance, ghosts of prophets, singers, and troubadours tag themselves with badge of diversity based on inclusion that binds random souls through staged dramas of social equity. True history that records human events transforms into mythical fairy tales etched in blue ice on windows of the house where ghosts of all the souls who ever live gather to read each other poetry that swirl as snowflakes through eternity.
Surrender To Absurdity
Surrender To Absurdity © Surazeus 2025 03 30 While driving my car on the Nowhere Road, I feel dull ache of ennui in my heart, and then I know with ironic detachment I should have made peace with absurdity of human existence on this vast world before I began my trip to Wonderland. Parking my old car in the empty lot, I wander on shore of the frozen lake to contemplate fragile impermanence which characterizes beauty of Nature, till feeling of annoyance numbs my heart, so I grin with satisfaction at Death. Yet yellow butterfly with fragile wings flutters with delicate calm of respect among white petals on the long black bough, which makes me think about how energy springs to life again after hiemal death, blooming with beauty of peaceful hope. I savor oppressive cold of gray skies on fields frozen hard in bitter despair so long I come to find in misery grim comfort at harsh ugliness of death till I see beauty in rancid decay and treasure horror of the lifeless tree. Alone in stillness of the leafless woods where grayness saturates the mindless soil, I feel the sudden flash of evening light when the sun advancing across stern hills pierces my eyes with sheen of desire as trees explode in quiet poof of green. The golden path of silence glows awake in winding casualness of sly amusement among the mulberry bushes of fate, so I surrender to absurdity that beauty gleams within the rugged world with urgent innocence of honest fear. My hungry eyes consume beauty of Earth with aching ennui that something more beyond blank nothingness of death may lure my heart to believe our souls might live on, but sweet beauty of this horrible lie would trap me in despair at suffering. My conscious sense of self is radiant glow conjured by chemical functions of hope from flashing neurons of my dreaming brain, so I savor ennui of this vibrant hour because I know my animating soul will vanish from this strange world when I die.
Sadness Is The Last Pear
Sadness Is The Last Pear © Surazeus 2025 03 30 Because I break into blossom each time I step out of my body without my mind, I breathe the happiness of lonely wind, embarrassed when my brain begins to chime with passion of ambiguous respect for how our vehement bodies connect. Though sadness is the last pear on the tree where horses eat grass that grows from my grave, I carve my happiness in the dark cave where bats are the demons who can fly free to dry meadow where Gordius ties the knot since angels crown him King of Camelot. If anyone thinks art can cure disease they have not felt the piercing angst of faith branded in our hearts by eyes of the wraith, nor shivered when the chilly forest breeze blows tattered fog among laurels at dawn when the exiled king has to play the pawn. To learn survival in the wilderness, after great civilizations collapse at shocking strike of the apocalypse, I seek to overcome safe happiness with boisterous song of bitter irony based on my latest soul epiphany. Warm sunlight threads words in frame of my soul as I imagine how to save the world if I agree to play the cosmic herald, but meditate without reaching for my goal through unpredictable flight of the heart down secret trails not mapped on any chart. Untriggered anger of the wordless play inspires my long-reluctant heart to try for random chance at well-earned victory sailing swiftly across the wind-flashed bay against blank facades of ambivalence which cannot guarantee calm nonchalance. Attention to strict rules of dialogue maintains clear focus on bold self-defense against attack by minions of pretense at fateful commission to catalog destructive actions of traitors and thieves because my mother is the one who grieves. Annihilated light of unseen truth adjusts trajectory of our national curve where good leader we choose is tasked to serve needs of the people by messiah sleuth who washes clean our nation of despair because his hate teaches us how to care.
Saturday, March 29, 2025
Stolen Mask Of Jupiter
Stolen Mask Of Jupiter © Surazeus 2025 03 29 Untethered twirl of emotional glide accelerates my soul beyond fake bounds of social convention that holds me down, because I spring high from book where I hide secret fears with glass skeletons in mounds on which the lost worship the haughty clown. Unchained ocean waves of obvious truths we dare not speak as taboo of the heart wipe vast metropolis of gleaming towers off face of the Earth with soul-cleansing baths since commercial empire is based on cart from which the lonely girl sells pretty flowers. Untricked by preacher of the fallen god to believe that each person is unique, we search for ancient sword Excalibur as magic weapon buried in the sod so we can fight the conman and his clique who wears the stolen mask of Jupiter. Uncivilized by tyranny of cash that drives fierce engine of global commerce, we fight new civil war of thought control to wear crown of thorns retrieved from the trash based on description of the universe designed by savior hung on the phone pole. Uncaged by law of Goddess Liberty with commission to bear the Torch of Truth, Minerva runs barefoot in the waste land to escape agents of security while pregnant with our new messiah sleuth destined to rule Earth with his red right hand. Unpuzzled petroglyph on Stone of Scone depicts First Mother of the Human Race when she emerges from the Lake of Dreams and plays haunting tunes on flute of bird bone then wears golden mask over pock-marked face when she performs in Theater of Seems. Uncrowned as honest Emperor of Earth, I ride White Horse of Justice down the street through parade to celebrate victory, then analyze what everything is worth which I list on the clay-tablet spreadsheet as world-traveling man of mystery. Unlocking stolen mask of Jupiter, I climb huge pyramid of the God-Eye so I can understand the human heart which follows path devised by Lucifer because we choose our fate by asking why we must blindly conform to our star chart.
Both Man And Monster
Both Man And Monster © Surazeus 2025 03 29 If I misunderstand how the red snow falls the gold-eyed cat who lounges on my porch could explain secret of romantic faith in failure of books to describe the truth about the nature of ancestral dreams encoded in tribal myths I invent. The frog that climbs up window of my heart tries to hide eerie glow of the weird moon, but I see its shadows in every room, even during the day when angry birds declare their sovereignty in tangled trees with beautiful songs that make my heart ache. Before sunset I wander into town and sit in the back of the smoky bar to eat fish and chips and stare at the lake while people stand before the microphone and read their secret-coded poetry to supportive cheers of their fellow poets. Crouching on moon-gold beach of the large lake, I write lines of verse in the gleaming sand about the United States of Ionia through which cabal of poets in black robes rule the world with slick advertising slogans, till the turtle nibbles at my right hand. The bittersweet sorrow of our strange world cries out in mindless song of windy rain that cannot be translated into words so I become the silence of my voice that folds my fears into pages of books which transform into spirit-haunted trees. I dismiss with tragic wave of my hand every opinion that clutters my mind in vain attempt to sweep them all away and clear blinding illusions of despair, but spiderweb of truth ensnares my hand with sticky nonchalance of sly disgust. I refuse to be absolute for death except as fateful end that traps us all, for I resist the nothingness of fate with cautious assertion of faint desire to keep on living without trying hard, savoring sensations of pleasurable pain. Both Beowulf and Grendel are described by the Unknown Poet with raven quill with similar terms as both man and monster, the same as Gilgamesh and Enkidu, demonic spirit in civilized man, twins contesting to understand red snow.
Friday, March 28, 2025
Next World War
Next World War © Surazeus 2025 03 28 We may survive the next world war, or not, with cheerful laughter of the Argonaut who cancels quest to steal the Golden Fleece in vain attempt to establish world peace by claiming every land on Earth is his because he always wins the puzzling quiz. He wants to build new home in vale of tears to manage school of crazy puppeteers by teaching them to scam the populace with threat from rolling stone of Sisyphus, but he gets lost in forest of the clown where Gretel marries him with mindcuff crown. Still staring in the mirror of his soul for twenty years without his secret goal, he wonders who defines the right from wrong besides the Valkyrie with tragic song who outshines everyone on the world stage though she got trapped by fame in her gold cage. Elected captain to steer Ship of State, after Midas wrecks it with bitter hate, the Argonaut who hides his secret name writes new constitution for the world game so everyone who plays life by the rules can create beauty with conceptual tools. Since we hope to survive the next world war with shadow of our faith in global lore, though traitorous thieves destroy our world view, we work together when the ingenue performs her role as savior of the world as prophesied by the mad cosmic herald. As incarnation of brave Liberty, who wields Book and Lamp of democracy, Minerva rides the white horse of our hope with grand ontology beyond our scope to build from ruins of America nation of justice called Zarathia. Displaced from homes we lived in many years, and fired unfairly from fruitful careers, we follow Moses through the wilderness across the rusty bridge of aimlessness to surround castle where the tyrant hides with treasures he stole from our psychic guides. Though Midas steals everything we hold dear, attempting to divide us with fake fear, we smash his idol with its feet of clay when Sisyphus arrives with spells to pray, so we will survive world war of his greed and regrow Tree of Life with honest seed.
Life As Hungry Savages
Life As Hungry Savages © Surazeus 2025 03 28 Dozing on the back porch in the warm sun, I contemplate red history of the gun that toppled empires of the sword and horse and fueled mankind on faster-engined course, so now we race to control every isle while attending state feasts with graceful style. The fallen airplane floats on ocean waves just offshore from the secret cliffside caves where our ancestors first drew images to transcend life as hungry savages, so Icarus spreads his wings without faith and soars among clouds with the mindless wraith. His mother calls him from the tower porch, then wanders in the night with flaming torch to find where he has fallen from the sky so she can ask the bitter devil why he dares rebel against the tyrant king who shoots any angel who tries to sing. Kneeling in dust before the pyramid where Jupiter keeps stolen treasure hid, Lucifer packs powder in metal pipe then aims rifle to kill God Archetype who decrees he owns both body and soul of every human he assigns state role. Roused from my slumber in the warm noon sun, I grumble at slaughter caused by the gun the past five hundred years of holy wars that gangs of men fight to control food stores as we transform castles into glass banks and horses mutate into brutal tanks. Glancing upward at glowing clouds of fate, I search blank space for ministers of hate who rampage now through halls of government to pilfer treasures of entitlement that shatters sense of safety we all share in system we had built that shows we care. Dismissing tragic events of this age, caused by the greedy vampire on world stage, King Midas shouts that he will rule the world while citizens pray for the cosmic herald to solve our crisis with respectful law enforced by wisdom of brave Onatah. Illusion of power enforced by guns dissolves at radiance of our freedom songs so we rise up from lethargy of fear and march against the thieving puppeteer to free America from tyranny and build stronger global democracy.
Way Of Flowing Streams
Way Of Flowing Streams © Surazeus 2025 03 28 If the moon could speak, she would tell me why sad people are never allowed to cry while they hang upside down in the Joy Tree and sing anthem about how to live free through clarion call of the mountain wind with broken hearts only beauty can mend. If the noble stag of the forest grove escapes the hunter for the treasure trove, my heart leaps laughing with joyful respect, foolhardy guest devils fail to detect, so I ask the moon why humans must die who tries to explain the afterlife lie. Since I can never know your secret heart, though I trace your fortune on the star chart, you remain completely unknowable therefore I choose to find you lovable each day we wake together in our space, still in love with your mysterious face. If fear constrains me with paralysis of desperate hope forged from analysis, I transfer anguish to the puppet show that I perform in soft blue evening glow till soldiers shoot us for protesting hate, defined by commands of aggressive fate. When people who can hear vibes of Earth Soul invent loud silence that no bell can toll, we gather to protest cruel tyranny till we are inspired by epiphany that songs of faith can cripple feeble power and free Liberty from the Ivory Tower. With pulsing material of frantic light, contrived by flow of time untangled right, my heart paints portrait of the soul I love who wears pretty mask of the willing slave, yet we give each other freedom to play, choosing in the end to unite and stay. More than halfway to the end of my tale, I leave church where everything is for sale and wander in ephemeral glow of faith to find pure emanation of my wraith that guides me toward the vale where I will sleep, so I ask the Earth my frail bones to keep. Whereas our hearts are equally intense with loyal passion of our future tense, we share one winding road of earnest hope to help each other thrive well as we cope, so we generate children of our dreams who help us map the way of flowing streams.
Thursday, March 27, 2025
Secret Of Star Flowers
Secret Of Star Flowers © Surazeus 2025 03 27 Totally lost in madness of his dreams, Samuel strums rusty-stringed guitar and sings in harmony with buzz of the radio till his brain sprouts four plastic raven wings when five men wearing masks in the black car handcuff his thin hands and take him away. Locked with Pandora in the golden cage, Samuel stands on his hands for twenty hours while she explains the secret of star flowers that beam the animating soul of love which fills his body with conceptual juice since dictators never honor the truce. Entranced by golden snake eyes of the girl, Samuel gives Pandora his finger bones so she can weave from threads of history life-tale of Lucifer in tapestry that hangs in castle hall of honesty where Beowulf reads his new poetry. Once Samuel crawls out of his turtle shell, Pandora, twirling around their glass cage, shows him how to become invisible to people staring at them in the zoo, so he breathes deep and spits words on the wall that transform into scarlet butterflies. Molding thick mud of his worm-consumed brain into small model of the Trojan Horse, Samuel gives ten thousand oranges of fate to Pandora with smooth bow of respect, so she makes orange juice people buy online so she can buy fake wings of Icarus. Holding up sign painted with blood of ghosts, Samuel declares for dead angels to hear, "Respect existence of every live soul or expect resistance of the mad fools who demand freedom and justice for all," but people driving cars in rain honk horns. Hugging the mad fool to her loving breast, Pandora chants disapparation spell which teleports them far around the Earth from detention cell in Louisiana to ancient ruins of the Parthenon where they kiss till the Earth becomes more real. Taking selfies on their broken eye-phones among time-weathered pillars of their hearts, Samuel and Pandora, smiling with joy, announce their marriage on social media which garners thousands of congratulations, then they grow old and die in their zoo cage.
Sapphire Of World Peace
Sapphire Of World Peace © Surazeus 2025 03 27 Luminous phantom of the great egret spreads her delicate wings in doting breeze and glides grandly over wind-rippled lake that glitters blue as sapphire of world peace with secret message from her aching heart that Nature still blooms after we are gone. Drinking root beer at the old picnic bench, Sophia watches clouds gleam over houses where people are living safe in their faith. "I cannot feel bombs rattle family homes in that distant land far across the sea where my ancestors lived centuries ago." Tossing the fantasy novel she wrote into the sapphire-blue lake of world peace, Sophia declares with sarcastic voice, "The political game in this great land has gotten so absurd that comedy has been neutered by their incompetence." Covering her face with thin paint-smeared hands, Sophia cries with broken-hearted angst as she thinks about how her mother died because her social security funds were blocked from transfer to her bank accounts, so she died when the bank foreclosed her house. Walking past the shuttered car factory, Sophia climbs stairs to her studio where she stares at the half-finished portrait depicting homeless people in torn tents who cook canned soup under the highway bridge where an Amazon delivery truck gleams. Dipping stiff-haired brush in glob of red paint, Sophia paints barely-seen smudge of blood on hands of the banker in clean blue suit who blithely drives his new gold-painted car past encampment where seven people live whose homes he foreclosed over the past year. Peering close at figure of the old woman, Sophia paints the yellow flowered dress her mother loved to wear attending church, who now pushes shopping cart of her things, including books of family photographs of her ancestors the past hundred years. "Our spirits become part of this alien land when we bury our parents in its soil, and our words become the wind in its trees." Streaking white flash of light, Sophia paints luminous phantom of the great egret gliding grandly over the homeless camp.
Wednesday, March 26, 2025
Unhappy In Weird Heaven
Unhappy In Weird Heaven © Surazeus 2025 03 26 Ordained intensity of our fierce life provides conceptual frame for ardent door for which my tongue designs the singing leaf that flashes old memories in wordless blur, engrossed in program that reverses time with casual grief that nurtures my new dream. Awake with curious faith in haunted hills with tattered scrolls, long hid in sacred sands, I play my game out of sync with church bells from static message that fractures quaint minds too eager for embroidered book of tales that mocks kind people who live without goals. Stuck in portrait that depicts the last star which gleams on faces of warriors in gloom, I change my image at alarm of war to hide behind mask of the loyal team and translate strange cries of electric birds that gather in oaks at howl of mad bards. On flat-top pyramid as watchful guard, armed with taut bow of arrogant desire, I achieve creative project of God, who embodies the monster we most fear, by analyzing mental state of Man who incarnates psychic light of the sun. Unhappy in weird Heaven we create, I assemble puzzle of my God Face, that pulses calmly with eclectic light which luminates false rooms of my old house, from soul of each ancestor in my genes whose voice whispers in marrow of my bones. Performing my new role as Sisyphus, I construct cars in the steel factory to prove I could be more magnanimous with urgent spirit of democracy because this world is older than our souls that shimmer whitely in Odinian wells. I ride long train of circumstance back home to where I tame the horse in apple grove with primal language through uncertain hymn detailing progress of romantic love by which we generate aggressive souls who conquer Earth with calculating scales. Crouched in the silent trance, I watch the moon transform souls of our war-traumatized saints from avid angels to idolized stone who default on their government accounts in time for tragic marriage of true minds who share electrons in covalent bonds.
My Unpossessed Heart
My Unpossessed Heart © Surazeus 2025 03 26 Beyond vast picture of painted landscapes I see uncertain whiteness of pure depths reflecting ugly beauty of our world that frames my face as god in glowing clouds, so I rebuke that darkness in the sea that molded me from passion to fly free. The whiteness in gloomy depths of my heart contains the ancient truth I hope to see, but one teardrop from Heaven falling far erases vision of the unseen world, so I walk backward on the signless road that everyone wants to name for their god. The fragmentary whiteness of my world encloses me in meadow of lush grass, so I stand breathing spirit of the sky with motionless mind of the spinning globe to feel how borders limit our landscapes to scope of truth in what our eyes perceive. The people in the village by the sea, who support my poor family with calm care, are swept into white depths by sudden storm that hurls enormous waves of arrogance with mute indifference of lightning-flashed wind so not even their secret names remain. The whiteness of the world offers no gifts more than I would need to live each day while tending apple trees by the blind lake surrounded by strange darkness of the wind that scatters leaves across my fenceless yard on which I write these poems I never sing. Nothing that exists in material form transcends sweet whiteness of the cheerful dawn beyond what spirit of the sky provides, though faceless god whom everyone adores never replies to my sincerest prayers except that Nature keeps blooming with life. Every land where my ancestors have lived across ten thousand miles of their long road has never belonged to them, though they lie buried in its soil so their bones provide lattice of honesty that forms landscapes where I travel with my unpossessed heart. We journey west to find home of the sun ten thousand years over mountains and seas, but find the Earth is round and never ends, so I stop on rugged coast of the world and give my alien spirit to this land which sings my ballads long after I die.
Light-Winged Dryad
Light-Winged Dryad © Surazeus 2025 03 26 The light-winged dryad of the trees calls me to dance with her in blooming hemlock grove, so into numberless shadows we twirl on pungent shore of sparkling Lethe stream to ease sharp ache of sorrow in our hearts by sharing pleasure of our mortal souls. With slavish thirst of chemical-bound frames we drink sweet water from the Hippocrene that bubbles deep in forest of dead gods whose voices echo softly in the wind with lustrous eyes of drowsy memories that make us groan when we kiss at sunset. No longer full of sorrow or despair, because we stay together hand in hand while blazing our own pathway in dark woods, we wander secretly where stars guide us far from the crowded streets of market towns to find where Queen-Moon lies among flowers. Where Bacchus dances among white hawthorns, deep in thick groves of winding mossy ways, we seek strange beauty of grim star-eyed Death whose horror teaches us to love our lives and treasure limitations we secure, which nurtures fragile spirits of our hearts. Thus fortified with pastoral glow of faith that strengthens us with courage of the truth, we venture into maze of crowded streets to comprehend with clear observing eyes mystery of competitive money games people perform to gain power of wealth. Sweet heart-enchanting music of the stars sung by immortal nightingale of hope long charmed our hearts with vision of the world where every person honors rules of life, but now its calm inspiring requiem fades trammeled by commercial shouts of greed. Divine melody of her plaintive anthem, which animates our bodies with Star Soul, sung by deceiving elf inside our hearts, writhes twisted into parody of faith by men obsessed with fame of thought-control willing to buy anything with the coin. Long trapped in labyrinth of social greed as helpless pawns in pageantry of power, we assert halting steps with urgent cause to escape frantic market place of fear and seek to dwell again in meadow grove where birds sing freely by the sparkling stream.
Tuesday, March 25, 2025
Far From Falling Bombs
Far From Falling Bombs © Surazeus 2025 03 25 Because we pass through thick shadows of hope while driving ribbon of moonlight alone, we see our spirits dwelling in wild trees, so we buy passports from the cavern ghost to cross the border from our war-torn state and live in the woods far from falling bombs. Our misconstrued breath of hope for world peace suffocates angry shadows of despair, so we exchange faces by the pool of tears, sure we will inherit the Earth from hate, then walk the road of danger to the farm where Phoebus plows fields far from falling bombs. Twirling baton in parade of dead gods, Minerva leads the marching band with pride around the marble monument to ghosts whose blood dribbles from red stripes of our flag above the park where people eat roast steak and waltz to music far from falling bombs. Phoebus trudges plowed field in leather boots, gathering crosses painted with false names, and throws them in piles at the Gate of Heaven where chanting crowd burns them under old stars till wings of angels are crippled by rage yet they try to fly far from falling bombs. The beautiful sky of the Evening Land, that shimmers with fire over country towns, hides wordless horror as Nero plays lyre and sings about the Trickster who deceives to avoid service in the holy war, and plays piano far from falling bombs. Walking in forest of rebellious faith to join convention of primordial gods, I erase the road of my journey home to dance on tightrope over the abyss so you can find truth in skulls of dead seers that speak with water far from falling bombs. The clever child who graduates from fate lights lamps along the frosted boulevard to reciprocate horror with calm faith when the luminous phantom becomes breeze that rustles leaves of trees on fruited plains in garden of hope far from falling bombs. The old man in the boat on moonlit lake sings ancient melody from Babylon where cattle graze among the fallen pillars with plans to rebuild Temple of the Mind as haven for the ghosts expelled from church who sing with new hope far from falling bombs.
Follow Jesus To Fish
Follow Jesus To Fish © Surazeus 2025 03 25 So many ways to fall out of the mind and weave light of the sun in roots of trees when I transform into angel from fish, and tell the old Sea Woman what I wish as her hair swirls around in evening breeze while she wanders beside the red-furred hind. The convex mirror that reflects my soul reveals strange beauty of the human heart in how we choose to play chess game with Death who sits enthroned before the monolith and studies fortune on our world star chart to see who next should play her priestess role. Still wearing black silk gown after the dance, Death takes my hand and leads me to the pool where she reveals weird secret of rebirth which I record with runes in Book of Earth to outline magic of the mental tool we use to divert fate with random chance. Embraced with passion of the spinning world, we generate soul for child of our love who leads great army of horses and men to gather herbs for making medicine while guided by her starship from above till revolution of the cosmic herald. Death resurrects my body with each life which she designs with programmed memories encoded through immortal soul of genes, so I invent bold industrial machines to mass-produce wealth in vast factories controlled by bankers during global strife. Returning from bloody fields of world war, young men who set out to make the world great follow Jesus to fish on ocean boats or linger on hillsides with herds of goats while sons of bankers feast behind locked gates and Phoebus runs the corner grocery store. Now most fully in love with easeful Death, calling her soft names with voice of the wind, Phoebus kisses her with passionate faith, then shouts to glowing clouds of the star wraith that he now finds it much more rich to live with lightning-nurtured vision of whole breath. While Death takes care of their child Artemis, Phoebus drives van on the crowded highway to visit new aquarium in town, since he wears his jeweled emperor crown, where he sees shine in the golden skyway the Revolution Stone of Sisyphus.
Monday, March 24, 2025
Blue Iris Of Innocence
Blue Iris Of Innocence © Surazeus 2025 03 24 The delicate blue iris of innocence blooms among bull thistles, crabgrass, purslane, and horseweed in the fenced-in vacant lot with humble beauty of the faceless girl who arranges stones in circles of faith to enclose dazed silence of afternoon. Gold-breasted kingbird with quick darting eyes reigns from her nest in the mulberry bush with elegant grace of wind-hopping faith to prove that compassionate grace of trust heals broken-hearted people of the world who struggle to escape dire circumstance. Trapped in the bureaucratic maze of fear, Maria Flores stares at cement wall where ghostly faces of her children glow though seven years of loneliness have passed since agents arrested them on the bridge when they were driving home from Mexico. Released from detention one afternoon, Maria Flores walks the quiet town past the fenced-in vacant lot of her heart where ghost of her daughter arranges stones to protect blue iris of innocence, then lies down under the mulberry bush. Not knowing where to find her family, Maria Flores walks to the old church but the door is locked and the lights are out, so she works as the night-shift janitor at the hotel near the airport highway and sleeps at night by the mulberry bush. Attending church each Sunday afternoon, Maria Flores prays for light of hope, kneeling at statue of Mother and Child, to find where her husband and children live, then walks past city park where children play while angels scream in pain too far away. Twisted branches of trees gleam in the pool that shimmers beside the large ice-smooth stone where Maria Flores, numb from despair, stares at calm beauty of the silver sky that erases gaunt beauty of her face and carves it on the stone of solitude. Kneeling before tombstone behind the church carved with name of her mother in gray letters, Zuzia Flores weeps with pain of relief after searching for more than twenty years, then looks up at sharp song of the kingbird who takes her heart and flies beyond the world.
See Beyond The World
See Beyond The World © Surazeus 2025 03 24 Staring at the stars that may not be real because they burned out millennia ago, I think about the life I want to live creating beautiful art for the heart from the ugly misery of working life, and decide I want to grow tangerines. The bomb of deep insight that blows my mind when the blue-collar painter of the house becomes the painter of modern fine art restarts the clock of purpose in my heart, unwinding social programs in my brain so I become the grass of the weird world. When I hear the ancient voice of the Earth speak through the trees that sprout from the soil I feel them moving in motion with hope that swirls with atoms from first flash of time and winds tight ball of energy as Earth that shimmers in sweet juice of tangerines. First Mother of every life-form on Earth lives inside our brains as shared memory which motivates hearts of organic creatures with passion to sing strange song of the sea for she composed first program of our genes to generate our souls from chemicals. Young girl at the kitchen table of sorrow, wearing yellow dress of butterfly wings, stares past pretty face of her lonely mother who smokes while cooking scrambled eggs and ham, waves magic-wand spatula of hard truth, and growls, "Everything in books is a lie." Lying beside me on the star-gleamed lawn, she tells me how she feels about desire. "When I saw the sad painting on the wall that depicts young mother with suckling child who waits for her husband home from the sea, my mother laughed loud with explosive scorn." "Light waves of words flow down into my heart," she sings with haunting voice soft as the wind, "and fill my mind with dreams of life and death that every creature who has ever lived performs in journey of its eager will to create beauty from anguish of fear." The girl who will not die lives in my heart, and haunts my steps four hundred million years, for she wears crimson gown of burning stars and teaches me to see beyond the world through ancient eyes she designed in the sea so I know where to go beyond tomorrow.
Trickster Of Truth
Trickster Of Truth © Surazeus 2025 03 24 The great horned owl introduces the moon into reticent room of my vast heart, so I start my day as trickster of truth by sending flocks of happy butterflies to paint the world with blood-red light of dawn that wakes everyone with language of wind. The roots of trees draw sorrow from my heart, translating unknown fears to humble songs that measure curvature of my soul spine to speak with dialect of bodied minds which cleanses our hearts with glow of respect through wakefulness of unmirrored desire. In my idyllic world of steady faith I play guitar before the empty church and sing grand epic of the human race that praises humble people of the state who go about their business every day while face-painted clowns play fake power games. My fishing village at end of the lake provides bountiful wealth from heart of Earth where strong-hearted girls thrive in howling wind and cast bright snowflakes far across the land that sprout into periwinkles of hope where children play chase Sabbath afternoons. No more the world-exploring traveler I was when I was young and vigorous, I now am blowsy-headed gardener, dazed by strange beauty of her sun-lit face as we tend twisted trees of ghastly fruit that nourish the demonic in our hearts. Since I will never see the black egret wade in wind-rippled pond behind my house, I mold green shadows of weird psychic dreams in masks that humans wear to play as cows which graze among the dancing daffodils while I bare my heart to the healing sun. Packing emotional baggage of faith with false memories my dream-fears invent, I walk the signless road of everywhere past ladders that extend into the clouds to stamp obverse side of the royal coin with face of my father, the kind storm god. If clouds begin to serenade my ghost with the heart-enchanting afterlife lie, I will unanchor ship of my fierce heart to live unsettled life on restless seas so I can find the treasure trove of tropes I use to build this virtual world of dreams.
Sunday, March 23, 2025
We Feel Safe At Home
We Feel Safe At Home © Surazeus 2025 03 23 Home is the place in time where I am born with each new day Earth spins around the sun, so I should never feel sad or forlorn with you beside me to play games of fun, for though we wander far from our first hearth we feel safe at home anywhere on Earth. With eyes fixed on the past where I come from I walk backward to the new home I build while chanting spells in rhythm with the drum as founding member of the Singers Guild, recording tales of heroes we adore whose mothers wait still in their open door. Old bearded wizard in the forest grove explains to me the past is never dead, and not even past as our memory trove, for history is the dream poem in our head that we recite each night in feasting hall to praise the dead whose masks hang on the wall. On flowing water of our history ghost we sail our boat of life on stream of time, then feast in temple of the generous host who offers wisdom of the ritual chime while actors play dramatic roles on stage in tales I record on the timeless page. The future always seems invisible while the past presents everything we know, yet our own tale is still discoverable as we resist fate to go with the flow through fierce subversion of the ancient truth now redesigned by our messiah sleuth. Each present moment beams beyond our reach so we record events as they occur to synthesize truth our descendants teach reversing roles of God and Lucifer as tyrant overthrown by rebel clown whom we elect to wear the thorny crown. Though frightened crowd attends fear of their rage at innocent scapegoat they sacrifice, the victim resurrects as victor sage who shelters the oppressed in paradise, for Heaven is commune of equal rights according to great epic no one writes. I strum lyre and sing, wherever I roam in mountains or vales of our spinning Earth my heart I carry with me is my home for soul of each human is beyond worth, thus we must fight against cruel tyranny to keep our global democracy free.
Brave New World
Brave New World © Surazeus 2025 03 23 Wandering the same road as everyone else, I fluctuate in and out of existence while I draw the true to erase the false through dream synergy of psychic persistence because the roads we walk today remain long after our souls vanish in the rain. Turning the radio knob of my brain, I feel my voice fade in and out of silence so secret words may clarify in vain truths I dare not express without the license issued by Institute of Proper Truth managed by son of the messiah sleuth. Dancing around the Trevi Fountain Pool, I flicker in and out of film observance and throw three coins, according to the rule, to wish for happiness from divine science in sacred water of romantic love we first experience in the moonlit cove. Descending spiral road to caves of Hell, I wander in and out of time appliance through literary door of thought control to find my soulmate with hermetic guidance when I invade cathedral hall of breath through inspiration of psychotic death. Outlining patterns in material forms, I flash in and out of idea persistence to manage estates of flourishing farms united in empire of social alliance as we integrate nations of the world in one state measured by the cosmic herald. Uniting rich diversity of souls, I vibe in and out of legal compliance with generous respect for all lifestyles which bond well in cooperative acceptance that fuels engine of artistic endeavors in bold creation of cultural treasures. Analyzing conceptual state of being, I breathe in and out of scriptural reliance through inspiration of the angel wing that sparks vision of prophetic contrivance in revelation of the new world order that will erase every national border. Designing new global world view of life, I whirl in and out of spiritual defiance with strict elocution through mental strife to unite the world with artful transcendence by building on ruins of America brave new world empire of Zarathia.
My Grief Is My Own
My Grief Is My Own © Surazeus 2025 03 23 My grief is my own, so I will contain volatile ardor of my suffering trapped in receptacle of my strained heart to preserve aggression of passive angst safe from causing injury to other people who struggle to deal with their own affliction. So many innocent people of Earth, who seek to escape oppressive conditions and struggle across waste land of despair to find haven safe from exploitive thieves, stumble blind into far worse situations, trapped in bitter hell they cannot escape. Accumulation of their wordless grief, piled onto unbalanced scale of my heart, weighs all their suffering of relentless pain more heavy than enormous mindless stones crushing my mind with fearful agony that I cannot rescue even one from sorrow. I want to save, with bold alacrity of eager zeal, every person on Earth trapped in exploitive hell by greedy thieves who suck their vital dreams with vampire lust so maze of cities becomes cluttered thick with traumatized zombies searching for love. Numb from excessive vibes of bitter pain radiating from mute hearts of fear-trapped souls who despair at ever living in freedom, I wander vast maze of weird mythless world past smiling faces that hide helpless regret which drives them to stage ineffective rituals. Clutching to my heart with desperate hope magic ring of invisibility, I clamber down in Underworld of fear to forge divine key of true comprehension so I can open every prison door and free frightened souls trapped in legal limbo. Hundreds of thousands of women and men, trapped in void between law and lawlessness as alien immigrants to Wonderland, cry out for help to Storm God in Glow Cloud who invests power in wealthy oligarchs to enslave their bodies for pilfered profit. The cage-trapped Eagle of America, who tries to hatch stone of grand principle that every soul is equal in the law, attempts to escape storm of revolution, but dies when its head cracks at golden bars, so I keep heart-breaking grief to myself.
Saturday, March 22, 2025
Mirror Mask Of Sisyphus
Mirror Mask Of Sisyphus © Surazeus 2025 03 22 Hieroglyphs inscribed on lightning-cracked stones depict the Raven God with thirteen eyes leading refugees of home-blasting war through narrow roadless mountain vale of hope to find dream garden of the Promised Land hidden behind enormous walls of wealth. To walk backward in future of the mind where television screens in trunks of trees present whole history of the human race, I wear the mirror mask of Sisyphus to stand before statue of Pegasus and pose for celebrity photographs. While marching in the band of howling clowns in oval stadium full of cheering crowds, we gather fragments of shattered world views to build abstract sculptures of twisted bars which represent the leading characters performing roles in our disastrous show. Organic forms of plants and animals emerge from pungent passion of the soil to play the subtle personality sensitive to ever-shifting terrain in social drama fraught with fake respect that changes lives with contrived honesty. Traveling through space of transforming time to work in garden of flowers and herbs, I consider how the stranger might feel on reversing tide of conceptual hope where I shall sing plain prophecies of doom while taking stock of truth designed by fate. Wolves surround the wounded king in the snow who prays to the rising moon with fierce hope to extract lithium from old rugged hills where every honest poet in the world wanders among cactus of blind skeletons who dance on graves of thieving oligarchs. If we remember her electric laugh that rings cathedral bells of self-control, we might soon comprehend why colors cry to robot angels of Elysium who sell stolen feathers of Pegasus to curious tourists from land of the brave. Though I escape blank page of the dream book I will play better self my heart designs to steal the thorny crown of sacrifice from head of the god who eats lightning strikes so he can become human before he dies and his atoms formulate flowing streams.
Unwinds Clockless Time
Unwinds Clockless Time © Surazeus 2025 03 22 Stars sink into the dusty yard of sad, uwinding clockless time of random thoughts that swindle mystery of its puzzling truth so we forget soft why of arrogance when children tiptoe past the room of death where asters burst through windows of disgust. My body encased in ghost-sheen of frost breaks free from dragon egg of naked hope when I wake in darkness of empty rooms and drive through light of endless waning moons forever over contours of my brain that match the landscape of unshadowed vales. Each river that loses its sacred name in swirling indifference of the blind sea describes annunciation of rebirth where nameless swimmers search for my real home to howl each time they emerge for fresh air with visitation of angelic ghouls. The painting of the woman on the wall who calls to the fisherman in the boat that floats between lonely hills and glow clouds reveals uneasy doubts I try to hide in bowl of tangerines beside the book that seems to record tale of the last god. When I go back to the house for the book presenting story of the cosmic herald, I get stuck in time loop of false desire through inquisition of the holy cult based on hypothetical creed of faith, awake on tranquil bay of innocence. As displaced person of the jungle tribe, clutching relic of my fear-broken god, I meditate on nature of the heart in cold cement prison cell of fear, stuck in limbo between Heaven and Hell that reflect state of mind I imitate. Still priest of Hermes in old temple ruins, I play the sacred flute of haunting angst that weaves pure darkness of the lonely heart in star-stained fragrance of barley and wine while I guide you on the shadowy path to lightless Underworld of faceless ghosts. Yet Caliban emerges with green blood from treacherous womb of the willow witch to sing ice-crystal absence of the heart with heart-amending melody of faith that gushes from eyes of the jester king who uwinds clockless time of riddle dreams.
Windy Alder Swamp
Windy Alder Swamp © Surazeus 2025 03 22 When I find at last the wild alder swamp where, many years ago before my birth Jack Frost, the mad-eyed seer of Vermont, found winter garden of red-berried snow, I see rancid paradise he described that ever floats between Heaven and Earth. His gaunt luxuriating beast of fate still lurks in shadows of this alder swamp where trees begin to bud in spring-flared light that strips my soul of anguished self-concern so I stand denuded and vulnerable to close inspection of late-winter sun. Intense anxiety of wordless fear swells thick inside my heart with thwarted hope for something beautiful beyond this pain that surges ocean tides of bitter faith in dark depression of black moody sky, till I express despair with harpy cry. Stuck in blackening phase of alchemy that sears my heart with tangled energy, I breathe deep foul scent of the alder swamp, suppressed by frigid frost of winter gloom, then harmonize expressive melody in hopeful tones of weird aggressive hymn. With sudden whir of sober-feathered birds, that swoop through matrix of time-twisted limbs, I feel depressive passion bloom awake with flowers bursting from leaf-matted soil in words far sadder than the mist-veiled moon that glows indifferently with pretty light. Still on the forlorn road of vanished hope in windy alder swamp of hungry birds, I sense storm clouds fly tattered over hills reflected in cracked quartz stone in my hand that refracts depression with moon-white gleam so I find words to express how I feel. Rain-soaked boughs of alders overhead shake water of lost Heaven on my face, so I crouch by sky-silver pond of truth, and almost caress rippling waves with hands that feel vibration of this ancient Earth pulse in tune with beating heart in my breast. So I decide to choose less traveled road from winter garden in the alder swamp that bends through undergrowth of memories to free my heart from forest of regret so I can measure difference of my doubt through choices I make that create my fate.
Friday, March 21, 2025
Courage Of The Wolf
Courage Of The Wolf © Surazeus 2025 03 21 The chemical properties of the ghost teach me to impersonate my old self with careful beauty of library shelves which call me with voice of the lonely wolf trapped in the box of love letters I lost till grenade of my heart explodes with love. When I write my autobiography I must balance binary of the brain between withholding or revealing pain with shameless passion of the aching heart that plays the exhibitionist of lust bleeding from core of my pathetic past. The woman I love wearing long black dress, who stands in cemetery of lost faith, calls out to spiders of the starless lair to rise from rotten brains of ancient gods and weave vast web of tangled platitudes, so they obey the star-eyed spider witch. The woman I love wearing white silk gown plucks orange from the tree of clandestine faith, then offers it to me with open hands and smile that dazzles me with light of truth, so we embrace in passionate respect with hearts entangled in red thread of love. While sitting by the window at her desk, the woman I love wearing flower wreath types lines of words on paper of my heart while her gold cat stretches with nonchalance behind typewriter clacking with weird spell that weaves my body frame from sentences. Leading me by hand to the apple grove where skulls of dead gods sing old prophecies, she teaches me the song of river light so I can understand the burning house where angels beat their wings in furious hope to heal the brokenhearted of the world. Cadence of wrens in maple trees inspire my heart to rise from empty grave of faith and give my last apple with generous hand to the oldest woman in the whole world who teaches me to read how water flows because the innocent girl always knows. He holds the Book of Dreams in crippled hand and prays till it becomes the silver raven who knows the secret name my mother sang while cuddling me in shelter of her arms when thunderstorm raged over mountain vales to fill my heart with courage of the wolf.
When Light Strides Bold
When Light Strides Bold © Surazeus 2025 03 21 When light strides bold on solitary fields and speaks to me of truth I should know well, I weave its vibrant colors in my heart as science overtakes my aching need and teaches me to feel the sacrament encroaching on my soul with eerie tones. With each ancestral life of hope I walk, awake in present body of my genes, I find out who I am through suffering as I abide with struggles of the heart on unblazed trail past milestones of desire where angels scold me with dire honesty. Though tribe of my gene-clan is scattered far and wide across the landscape of lost hope, and everyone I love has turned to stones that lie forgotten on the trail of tears, I keep on walking toward dark distant hills to reconcile my heart with knowing faith. Black wings of ravens in the sprawling oak, that flutter at approach of breathless fear, reveal strange beauty of her star-bright eyes that guide my way with confidence of love through tangled forest of misconstrued words where god of sorrow lurks by pool of lies. She howls not at injustice of the world for she steals away from its hostile games to dance in meadow of the singing horse who gives her wings of faithful mystery so she can touch weird beauty of the sky that mirrors secret wisdom of her heart. While wandering on the hill of hopelessness, we meet the moon-eyed prophet of despair whose face is chiseled gaunt by wind-blown rain, and ask if he can see future events, but he points to the endless swirling sea and chants grim spell that may set all hearts free. The shriveled souls of fallen angels writhe with violent agony surpassing faith, dismissing possibilities through hope that we may resurrect from rotten mud, so we wrap all painful experiences in secret book of miraculous life. Across our tranquil land of signless roads we follow shadow of the singing horse to fertile Garden of Hesperides where the wizard forges everyone keys so we can share sweet joy of this brief life when light strides bold on solitary fields.
Attention Of The Court
Attention Of The Court © Surazeus 2025 03 21 The trees of sorrow on the laughing plain call my secret name in arrogant rain, so I seek beauty on the wind-lashed shore far outside comfort of the broken door to sing with demons of Plutonian night who shriek in horror at comfort of light. Yet, when I wake in normal state of mind, that bizarre illusion my brain designed dissipates at glow of dawn on the wall, so I wander groggily down the hall to stare out the window and drink orange juice while pretending I am not son of Zeus. As agent of his secret justice squad, recruited out of college by Storm God, I must devise coherent action plan with clever wisdom of the mountain man to save our great nation from tyranny and restore functioning democracy. So I fry eggs and hash browns on the stove while I count weapons in the treasure trove, then drive the crowded highway into work, where old spies and treasonous assets lurk, to write detailed situation report about the need for clandestine support. Organizing gangs of soldiers with guns who discuss war plans with misleading puns, I gather army of fierce patriots who arrive in pairs and take up their spots to remove the traitor from seat of power who hides terrified in his golden tower. Just as we are ready to save the state Minerva intervenes with spear of fate, declaring that we are a nation of laws dedicated to maintain noble cause of justice through attention of the court to enforce the right and punish the tort. Though the traitor threatens to seize rich land, and the thief waves the chainsaw in his hand, we will not employ acts of violence that would break all dutiful precedence to arrest their rampage of grasping greed through application of our honest creed. Biding our time in shadows of the truth, we develop plan with messiah sleuth to arrange by the book through legal means Operation Caesar with judgment liens executed well by our cosmic herald who leads revolution to save the world.
Thursday, March 20, 2025
Tides Of Our Ocean Mind
Tides Of Our Ocean Mind © Surazeus 2025 03 20 I find the natural history of my soul as primal star-glitter of the First Flash in crystal geodes of the agate stone that reflects memories of ancestral brains woven in tangled genes of my sponge brain that pulses with tides of our ocean mind. Crouched by twisted pine on snow-frosted shore, I become wild gush of the mountain stream that sings ten thousand years about true love based on the clumsy way I interact with people who perceive me every day, so I walk ten thousand miles to the sky. Because pines know the reason I was born they dream the way I walk beyond my death since ferns are growing from my bloody chest in jeering sunlight of uncoupled time, so I eat raspberries from thorny vines to prove Pain cannot find my naked soul. With twisted finger of perpetual hope I write long treatise in forest-floor dirt discussing existential truth of roots in complex theory on meaning of time that unwinds mute surprise of ringing bells at pungent scent of mushrooms in wet soil. From gaunt-faced hunter in dark primal woods to noble well-fed king in castle court, I paint enormous canvas of my trip in winding maze of myths beyond my grave to chat with alligators in the swamp who work as lawyers in my new regime. Hysteric laughter of the Apple Witch startles me awake from ominous dream to calculate thematic drone of faith when planes crash burning in the field of wheat to prove we understand how Death unbinds spirits from brains of unbroken desire. In solidarity with distraught hawks, wounded soldiers draped in the red-cross flag walk stuck in loop of the lunar eclipse that conceals the road home to paradise though they study patterns of weird behavior based on channels of television shows. Nervous with melancholy of lost faith on leather couch before three cameras, I answer questions on meaning of life with language of rocks polished by the sea on the late-night television talk show which beams atoms of my soul to your heart.
Room Of Somethingness
Room Of Somethingness © Surazeus 2025 03 20 In dreamless nothing of the star-black mind I search for meaning to invent with words which I breathe from gush of the water stream that shouts loud at my face with mocking faith as I lean close to catch the darting fish so I can roast it on the crackling flame. Still dreamless in the realm of mystery, I gather fearful flowers from lush fields to untangle regret from roots of herbs that cannot clear confusion of the fog with flash of sunlight through its veil of hope that pierces my heart with anguish of faith. Twisting spines of books from aggressive trees, while I somersault bitter sea of joy, I build expanding house with countless rooms with brooding horror of the stinging rain that mocks my attempt to shelter my heart from haunted normalcy of restless wind. Stuck in perpetual wakefulness of faith, delicate eyes still dissolving to rain, I move through unconfirmed shadows of time to hide in cavern of fake innocence in nowhere rampant with sorrow denied by urgent quietude of still-locked doors. To each adjacent room of somethingness, half-stuck inside books of weird fairy tales disgusting as slime of the seaside harbor, I progress backward through stark formulas designed to calculate abundant fear collapsing in the future we abhor. Tomorrow never comes from fog of war framed by basement window of the stained heart that runs with feral attitude of pride to catch moonbeams encased in angel wings offensive to the man who claims as his everything that exists on this mud world. I hear no clocks chime hour of broken hearts at sudden intervals of falling pears despite the radio signal no one hears crackling in tangled wires of my glass brain with zealous passion for social ideals consistent with how castle walls reverse. For every door I knock on with respect ten doors are locked against kind prejudice that disabuses how horizons shape fraught ontology of cathedral hymns which children assemble from puzzle shards so I can claim I know who I should be.
Fields Of Silent Hope
Fields Of Silent Hope © Surazeus 2025 03 20 Once I rise from gold casket of the sun, dazed by strange wisdom of the spinning Earth, I walk across the fractured-mirror sky to scatter teardrops on the conquering dead who took nothing of the world in their hands when they crumbled to dust with those they killed. The woman who swallows poisonous spiders shows me how to extract honey from trees so we can eat sweet sorrow of the world before great sprawling cities of steel towers disintegrate into computer code that mistranslates tales of our futile lives. Black cows graze in the valley of despair without aggressive interest in results of horses races men bet on to get rich while mourning for fall of their world empire at second coming of the hungry clown who steals gifts from Christmas trees at midnight. I see no star man floating in the sky, but I do see farmers, feet on the ground, working in boundless fields of silent hope, while the girl who keeps the sea in her heart looks for solutions among purple thistles while whistling The House of the Rising Sun. No one regrets true love more than she does, so she studies how moose and arctic fox live in the tundra of perpetual faith by measuring distance to half-frozen pool that resembles eye of the dinosaur who walked these lands millions of years ago. The child who speaks ancient language of sheep tells his mother about the laughing crow that hops on the freezing cast-iron stove before dawn sun can break another heart with silent absence of the nameless face which means the opposite of what she thinks. The gray-haired mother who still prays in church tells the tombstone where her son lies in dirt that she trusts in God to protect his life, and glares at the old man in the oak tree who tells her God has abandoned mankind, then wades into the lake to drown herself. The riderless horse with moon-silver eyes glides regally in streets of Washington to bring faceless ghost of the fallen king back from lush meadows of Elysium so he can save the republic at last from grasping hands of Ozymandias.
Wednesday, March 19, 2025
Free In The Bitter Rain
Free In The Bitter Rain © Surazeus 2025 03 19 I prowl inside dark mirror of lost time to shoot star words at bullseye of my eye while dancing the waltz with my loving gun who chooses how much angry I should be till I fall backward in the flowing stream and float while I sing in the bitter rain. When I call to my disquieting Muse to help me analyze this shocking time when traitors and thieves control government, she throws me dragon bone of faith to chew, so I carve holes to hollow out its core and play haunting flute in the bitter rain. I dip my hands in fountain of desire that nourishes eight billion human souls with stirring stories of women and men who work together to create free world where children of their bodies can live free by fighting tyrants in the bitter rain. I push against taut walls of the blank book to expand conscious awareness of truth so I can base fantasy of my mind on what is real in swirling of this world, perceivable as concepts formed by words, so I can fly free in the bitter rain. I tell my heart that we will always lose every person we love with selfless faith, and everything we create with our hands, so my heart cries out to the glowing cloud with the same brave prayer my ancestors prayed while they kneeled on fire in the bitter rain. Grand ruins of my castle in tall weeds waits mute for me to return from the sea and restore crumbling halls to former glory so we can gather in candle-lit court and sing enchanting hymns to nothingness while cannons blast us in the bitter rain. Still roaming labyrinth of genetic dreams where idols of all my ancestors stand, I gather pages of lost memories to write new epic of the human tale with moist prophet eyes of the weeping god whose healing tears flash in the bitter rain. At flash of lightning that cracks door of faith storm god Odin, wielding Spear of Gungnir, emerges from the crumbling hall of stone to remove mask of Jesus from his face, then lifts holy grail of wine and hails Truth, our Goddess who sings in the bitter rain.
Young Hearts Swell
Young Hearts Swell © Surazeus 2025 03 19 After he finishes his evening meal of fried chicken, chocolate cake, and grape juice, Zeus lounges on back porch in evening glow when the setting sun makes everything gold, and tells trees, "Thieves destroy the government so fearful rich men can control our minds." When rich men attempt to enslave the poor by destroying every social program that supports their efforts to work and thrive, the Freudian Fire of revolution burns hot within beating hearts of the oppressed, so they will unite to retake control. Squirrels chase each other up and down oaks, small flock of deer travel the neighborhood to eat spring-burgeoning grass of new hope, and robins attack reflections in glass, while Everyman lounging on his back porch considers how to save the land he loves. When golden daffodils of timeless faith bloom bright in yards of late-winter gray grass, our hearts rouse from drowsiness of despair at startling collapse of our nation-state, so he gazes up at clouds that gleam gold in the Maxfield Parrish sky of our hearts. Beneath wild clouds of arrogant respect, bold Cadmus strides across the horn-plowed field, and sows sharp teeth of dragons in moist soil to nurture generation of brave warriors whose young hearts swell with patriotic pride to fight well for Justice and Liberty. Across the jagged mountains of disdain clever Princess Parizade with gold eyes bears in her generous hands with ardent faith the Singing Tree that grows from hearts of those who search for love too far away from home, and gives it to the humble carpenter. When dawn light breaks the darkness of despair and Eos casts gold rays on jagged peaks, we rise from sleep in Temple of of Lost Tales to swim in swirling Lake of Synergy, then gather on the shore to fish for truth that sparkle silver as they dart in play. Beyond the moral tales of propaganda that trap our hearts with religious agenda, we search for beauty in the spinning world conjured by vision of the cosmic herald who builds from ruins of cruel tyranny new system of global democracy.
Sand On The Beach
Sand On The Beach © Surazeus 2025 03 19 The only comfort I feel in my bones while I lie prone on sunlit pebbled beach is knowing Death will crush me into sand with waves of time that flow across my soul, so I will arise and leave Innisfree with treasure I find in its glimmering core. My children scatter far across the world, blown by the winds of fate to distant lands, so I sit in lotus status of peace to float above the television tube and dream I sail the sea in fragile boat to find the sacred Isle of Avalon. Awake on iridescent sea of faith, with luminous phantom of wise insight designed by all my ancestors to guide me safe beyond the waste land of despair, I feel sad I must abandon strange land where we had lived for forty thousand years. My fears swell huge with each wild gust of wind that blows my boat across the shining sea till I snap awake in my present life two thousand years later in distant land where I record their journey toward the sky to find where the sun disappears each night. Browsing books of poetry in the store, near grand ivy league university which my ancestor signed the charter for, I search for stories of adversity recording heroic deeds of lost fools who teach oracle-writing in brick schools. My ancestors dream awake in my head so I record names and deeds of the dead, though too many vanish in silent wind before I can photograph their rich souls so now they wander in the Netherworld as faceless ghosts who call the cosmic herald. Returning to the sacred river vale where we first met ten thousand years ago, we talk about our plot to rule the world by hurling every monarch into Hell based on oracle of runes in the well that show us how to save democracy. My mother weaves my body from sunlight, yet leaves me memes that teach me to survive encoded in myths of stories she tells, then I search landscape of this world for soul mate to generate life from love before I dissolve to sand on the beach.
Tuesday, March 18, 2025
River Boat Of Faith
River Boat Of Faith © Surazeus 2025 03 18 Cramped against covers of the empty book, my heart swells with love for all human beings who find themselves alive in world of dreams, so I puncture my heart with straw of faith to drain nutritious juice of charity so all thirsty souls of the world may drink. Air full of expectations we inhale, Earth nurtures our frail bodies with mute care by weaving roots of trees into our bones and filling our veins with clear mountain streams so we can still savor fathomless joy from ache of passion to dance in the rain. Celestial breath of hope inspires my heart so earthly dust that composes my soul may sparkle brightly in the morning rain as we support Empyrean of the sky in realm where ideas of eternal forms provide patterns for matter to express. Awake before rays of light illustrate pearlescent reality of desire, I reach my hands to touch the stalwart tree and feel trustworthiness of its firm truth ordinate my heart in matrix of time with eerie beauty of the phantom moon. Hope slumbers deep in structure of my bones which swell with energy from rays of dawn, so I rise to express excessive wings with exercise that constrains ache of hope to walk sandy beach of arousing breeze between the rough cliff and the sparkling sea. Abundant passion of electric tunes extracts steel sorrow from corrupted mud with tremendous shyness of holy faith through impossible occasion of fate which counters terror with intelligence to purge despair from hearts in bland surprise. Indifferent focus of attentive fear spurs forth repeated statements of respect from shadow man on river boat of faith who glides toward crystal tower above trees where Death lurks in office of bitter wealth that poisons the thief with arrogant pride. Truth knocks the weak oppressor off the throne to free our nation from his tyranny while we transplant our hearts in fields of snow where apple trees of innocence may grow from wind-flapped pages of the empty book filled now with runes of blood my heart must write.
Sound Of Falling Dirt
Sound Of Falling Dirt © Surazeus 2025 03 18 Sublime anguish of grief in heart of stone magnifies memories of bitter regret in abrupt avalanche of absurd words that crush fragile temple of vanity with platitudes from sound of falling dirt vibrating landscape of false paradise. Dazzled with language in my heart of stone, which proliferates new realities, I transition to my alternate self reflected in reverse image of fear through attitude for sound of falling dirt, stunned by absence of the speaker we call. Too eager to embrace void of the mind with animistic hunger for weird truth, she adds zeroes to sum of fractured wealth to oblige heartlessness of capital without echoes from sound of falling dirt accrued through impossible leap of faith. Insistence on her spiritual register, burned in ceremony of speechless rage, he recounts moments surrounding her death to spare assessment of semantic birth without regard for sound of falling dirt that fills empty grave in void of his heart. Prayer despite reverence for the miracle blinds his heart to her foolish sacrifice with broken promise to never forgive, twisted by pleasure from absence of pain before advent at sound of falling dirt while ruminating on the righteous path. Misfortune of the secret litmus test discounts shocked feeling of still being alive though his brain dials electric spirit-trance for bold imminence of grim bravery from rectitude at sound of falling dirt with limited grace of intimate truth. Stuck in unforgiving mirror of fate under shadow of death in the light bulb, she calculates precondition for faith with token of remembrance she must steal to observe change at sound of falling dirt, contrived by network of opportune friends. Outward judgment based on divine pretense, tucked away in book of fictional gods, he calculates sales from self-righteousness enriching betrayal of social norms which abides beyond sound of falling dirt through revelation of translucent wings.
Destroyers Of Our World
Destroyers Of Our World © Surazeus 2025 03 18 The river always asks me to believe wild children in the apple groves are gods who tell each other oracles to prove murderous bullies will crown their sons kings and start religions on the holy creed that they are sent by God to save the world. I want to study how the rivers work, analyzing way that spread water flows from rainfall on mountains, winding round hills, swelling wider across lush wooded plains, and merging into vast swirl of the sea, then evaporates to rise as shining clouds. I contemplate how rivers on grass plains, signified by attention of our minds, function as metaphor that illustrates slow process of change we humans observe by noting growth and decay of constructs that we define through mystery of time. Adjusting gear in engine of my car, I drive with flow of cars through urban zone in gridded maze of name-signified streets, regulated by flashing traffic lights, from house to school to library to store and back again in endless routine loop. I sense in strict routine of daily life magic of that motivational spark in perpetual motion machine of faith generating more electrical hope which fuels aggressive progress of my plan to build foundation for family success. Celebrities personify our hopes that shine as outstanding stars in the game who achieve success through attentive force of heart-inspiring discipline in work that slowly builds in small increments grand palace of political respect. Yet all I build may vanish from the world in sudden flash of disastrous misfortune when opposing factions of social greed clash over right to exist and perform role of power to control cash resource when I wander lost in the twilight zone. Strange beauty of this empire we create through constructive functions of daily work inspires my heart to love our nation-state, though greedy oligarchs now seize control, so to oppose destroyers of our world we unite and march till they shoot us down.
Monday, March 17, 2025
White Half-Sunk Boat
White Half-Sunk Boat © Surazeus 2025 03 17 The pear on the porcelain plate desires soft caress of delicate leaves to feel passion of hundred million open doors that call the old man in white half-sunk boat who splashes river water to explain how generosity of love seals fate. He tells happy children in the schoolyard that he must go to the jungle of fear and fight the monsters of despairing greed where eyeless angels float among tall trees to calculate sentient grade of true love sold by the old man in white half-sunk boat. Stumbling over the invisible wall that forms the boundary line of arrogance between opposing nation-states of mind, he waits still in white half-sunk boat of faith for birds of paradise to claim gold keys so they can live in castles made of sand. Each book he steals from vast library hall, that describes maneuver tactics of war, he scatters in the muddy field of corn along with the long-forgotten brass horn that Jericho blew to defeat the king in revolution of white half-sunk boat. With crozier forged from dragon-crippling brass Patricius strides on snake-infested shore to fight death-eaters in the ring of stones who oppress people of the Emerald Isle which frees their bodies from their mind control so they gather by the river at dusk. Ignoring old man in white half-sunk boat who prophesies the falling of fake bombs, the priest twirls crozier in tense martial stance and fights fierce shaman of the serpent cult for who has right to live in paradise and eat fruit of the sacred knowledge tree. The pear on the table of puzzle shards shines suddenly bright with ten thousand eyes who all gaze at glass screen of timeless dreams which display faceless ghosts of politics as noble heroes who sacrificed life to save their families for the photograph. Torn photograph of his large family twitches in white half-sunk boat of regret so he limps slow with stoic agony to buy his eyes back from the jester-king then sits on back porch with stringless guitar to sing heart-breaking psalms of fortitude.
Road Of Anywhere
Road Of Anywhere © Surazeus 2025 03 17 Through half-deserted streets of Lonely Town I drive my car on road of anywhere to find cheap hotel of insidious hope where no one talks of Michelangelo for none would dare disturb the universe at sudden laughter of the bitter curse. With each decision to revise the truth, awake with dread on road of anywhere, I measure endless cycle of my days to fix God with the formulated phrase designed to prove that nothing can be real except anxiety I must not feel. Alone in murky fog of narrow streets, I search for Death on road of anywhere without expression of the crisis prayer that faceless people prefer to conceal before the prophet could dare to reveal corruption in the bitter hearts of men. I shall presume to face the shocking truth by dropping crumbs on road of anywhere with vain hope to expose dishonesty since I aspire to greatness of the mind when I stride with bright lantern of desire to play Prince Hamlet in the next world war. With purpose of meticulous concern from scheme to rename road of anywhere I start the revolutionary scene to swell bold progress of the changing tide where mermaids sing to fools with crippling pride that sweeps old institutions to the sea. The universe in nutshell of my heart that shimmers on long road of anywhere inspires my heart to play the generous king who rules the boundless space of sovereignty with overwhelming question no one asks yet listens to the blind nightingale sing. Attending moment of crisis with faith that lures me lost on road of anywhere, I bear the empty platter with my head through endless streets in city of the dead where faceless angels know my secret name though I refuse to play their ruthless game. To navigate vast cluttered field of dreams while I traverse weird road of anywhere I redesign ontology of truth with strict erasure of religious creed in clever constructure from tropic seed to build cathedral for atheist faith.
Mask Of Ironic Jesus
Mask Of Ironic Jesus © Surazeus 2025 03 17 While wrestling windy shadows of my mind that buzz electric moonlight through my body, I sing ethereal sorrow of the sea in heart-wrenching melodies of despair to highlight beauty of this eerie world that shimmers from each object I observe. Down distant winding Road of Anywhere I run toward stark horizon of desire to find beyond bleak nothingness of death some perfect meaning framed by creed of faith, but float on wings of Icarus I steal to wrestle windy shadows of my mind. Emerging from cracked dragon egg of fear quicker than huge cockroach along my table, with Phoenix wings too tangled in phone lines, demonic Grendel crouches in my heart, wearing golden mask of ironic Jesus to offer salvation from propaganda. So I shout random concepts in weird spells to divert acid attention of Death from hidden treasures of my pulsing soul which unravel curses of legal discourse congealing into propaganda code designed to hypnotize with truthful lies. Beneath the plum tree in Garden of Eden, where John Keats transcribed sweet enchanting song of the lonely nightingale with pure verse, I attend unruly ghoul of my heart to compose divine hymn that transcends truth, which expands, rather than converts, the mind. With each eccentric verse of sentient spark, I sing with mercurial voice of the wind, my mind swells glow of consciousness beyond bounds of acceptable theology to enclose zillions of worlds teeming life in unified matrix of the White Whole. Transforming from fish of mindless desire to observant human measuring objects so I can analyze chemical process of atoms that construct and destruct forms, I evolve from hairless ape to wise god who dreams entire bloom of the universe. With tight-wrought verses of conceptual truth, that wind coiled energy of psychic hope to power time-machine of mental flight, I record my quest to design world view that helps me navigate hostility in poems that map my brain ontology.
Sunday, March 16, 2025
Until The Hour I Return
Until The Hour I Return © Surazeus 2025 03 16 Until the hour I return from the Earth, breaking free from the egg of humanhood, my heart wears godless mask of singing stone with dramatic stubbornness of the tree that curls roots into body of my soul so I can give each soul their secret name. Until the hour I return from the sky, swirling wild from glow cloud of consciousness, my brain flashes clear ancient memories that my ancestors live life after life as we evolve from fish to mortal gods, too sure of our superiority. Until the hour I return from the stars, beaming atoms into chemical coils, my womb generates bold organic beings who sing words to each other in fruit trees as we transform cats to monkeys to humans swarming around the Earth eight million years. Until the hour I return from the sun, animating robotic frames of flesh with psychic energy of storm-fierce gods, my legs will perambulate spinning globe in curious exploration of our dreams which I record in periplus of faith. Until the hour I return from the sea, sailing straight toward the Isle of Avalon, my eyes perceive objective forms of matter to measure subjective ideas of patterns which I encode in language of wind song to sing grand epic of humanity. Until the hour I return from the hills, striving to achieve the highest existence, my breast inhales ethereal breath of light to join global choir of eight billion voices that echo in dark forest of our dreams as we transform Wasteland to Wonderland. Until the hour I return from the vales, hiking mountain range sea to shining sea, my body delights in forbidden pleasures which alternates through extreme joy and pain as we eat fruit and make love by the pool that reflects our faces in yet-born children. Until the hour I return from the grave, rising on Phoenix wings from flaming seed, my soul records ever-renewing quest pursued by immortal soul of my genes to map complete history of human life on time-animated atlas of Earth.
Phoenix Wings Of Faith
Phoenix Wings Of Faith © Surazeus 2025 03 16 When Midas flies his golden planes of greed in Twin Towers of business and government to destroy our global democracy, we rally round bright flag of Liberty that shines with stars of civil rights for all and march ten thousand miles in smoke of war. Our long march in the wilderness of fear seems, to our hopeful hearts of angry pain, to last forever in struggle for freedom, so our fight against tyranny seems lost, but if we stay together in our cause we will arrive in paradise at last. Each eighty years in history of mankind we fight against the tyrant in gold tower who imprisons Rapunzel with his greed, and, though we sometimes lose our noble fight, and must endure monarchs too many years, we always rise on Phoenix wings of faith. I write this dispatch from my prison cell, hands chained by oligarchs afraid of truth, with spirit of great leaders in the past who preached salvation of honest intent from sunless underworld of misery to encourage you with passion for freedom. Though our great institutions, that stood long as secure bulwark against poverty contrived from ignorance of fearful minds, have been destroyed by gang of oligarchs to constrain our hopes as factory slaves, we will build better government for all. We gather in libraries, full of books that recount epic tales of noble heroes fighting for freedom and justice for all, to keep their doors open for everyone to learn about true history of our state constructed by oligarchs on backs of slaves. Yet working people, who unite their hearts in unions to secure their civil rights for safe conditions and well-deserved wage, assemble round governing pyramid of social hierarchy where the rich lounge to support the leader who keeps them fed. Our new towers of business and government will rise from ruins of failed tyranny when cosmic herald of United Nations emerges strong on Phoenix wings of faith to secure equal rights for every soul who lives in Heaven of our spinning Earth.
Twisted Black Boughs
Twisted Black Boughs © Surazeus 2025 03 16 White apple blossoms on twisted black boughs confuse my heart with ancient memories that must have been experienced long ago by nameless ancestors who must be mine for all their memories program how I think, so I merge them all into who I am. Silver-sky light gleams in twisted black boughs of hungry trees that try to reach the sky with space-invading energy of hope that flashes wordless visions in my mind where I see people walking down the street to go somewhere I am not going to. I want to stop the woman with no face as we pass each other by empty church about the secret pleasures of her heart so words she speaks may mold mask for her face which I can signify with secret name she shares in whisper from hidden desire. While we sit together in sharp moonlight I gaze at her face for ten thousand years till every feature of her hidden heart emerges from shadow as spoken hope so now I see her face on everything, even the moon that reflects her true soul. I spend all day among the apple trees, twisted black boughs lit bright by the gold sun, tending each individual tree with care to ensure upmost production of fruits that softly explode from pores of my brain so I become the tree of timeless faith. Earth-bound with preference for the flowing stream that carries all sorrow to the mute sea, I till thick soil with energy of hope to cherish apple trees that grow from graves where my ancestors breathe the boundless sky so we can dance among twisted black boughs. Instead of worms feeding on my dead soul when my children bury me under trees I want cheerful larks on twisted black boughs to consume tattered fragments of my soul and carry me among the swirling clouds where I can become the freedom of flight. But I wake again from dull dream of death and sit with heavy heart of aging angst beneath shelter of my twisted black boughs till she brings hot apple pie from our home for us to eat in the cool evening glow, so I gaze at her strange face as she sings.
Saturday, March 15, 2025
Never Take Us Home
Never Take Us Home © Surazeus 2025 03 15 Though I could try to believe anything I prefer to measure reality with objective words I steal from the moon by speaking thoughts the trees breathe out as air which translates firmament of crystal eyes to furrowed fields where wheat sprouts from our skin. Strange stories we bake in memory bread contain sufficient formulas to cheat how fast we drive on lonely country roads that never take us home to that weird place where we fool ourselves we may still belong till radios scream conspiracy theories. Regret for how my arrows pierce my back blinds me to snide disdain of river stones who declare with loud laughter of dark waves that the world will end in both fire and ice though we tell the old television set why we want to drive to the waterfall. Shocked in candle-lit room of oblivion, I pretend I have never been awake enough to taste the phosphorescent bulb that floats above my castle built of sand despite waves of distraction that confuse people who think their dreams never come true. Yet I will climb the ladder to the sky so I can find palace of crystal eyes where God sits on fake throne of dragon skulls watching me bumble along my life path with no direction home beyond the bus till I fall asleep under apple boughs. I refuse to rub strangeness from my sight since I break the fragile plate of smeared ice by talking to the bashful river naiad whose star eyes magnify my mushroom mind with vital flecks of hungry apple seeds while I trace shadows of falling asleep. This land of river vales was never mine but I have always belonged to the land wherever I have walked ten thousand years so I possess the lonely apple tree to earn salvation of the baptized clown because I think I am the star-blind seer. I find no salvation of holy truth while walking signless road across the land to build the shining city on the hill that must be Camelot of glamored myths where my ancestors danced each summer eve to bind their bodies with red thread of fate.
One With Sand Dunes
One With Sand Dunes © Surazeus 2025 03 15 I become one with sand dunes by the sea to face the empire warship off the coast and chant with voice of wind to indicate cry of the heart that people hide in words for we are dream technicians of the mind as holy vessels of the star-born soul. We dance on sand dunes by the singing sea to weave our spirits in matrix of light so we can hold the bitter grief of loss that blossoms from cracks in our mirror hearts through resurrection of the holy word as messengers of hope the Earth preserves. Small particles of sand dunes form our souls through chemical flash of congealing thoughts that sparkle flares of soft electric words when mothers create our bodies from wind so we can dance and sing sorrow to joy as wingless angels of the spinning globe. Becoming one with sand dunes of the mind we build bridges to connect virtual worlds that shimmer in net of each human brain when we translate songs of eyeless seers to other languages our tongues express as shamans leaping through the multiverse. Awakening with sand dunes of dead stars, I stretch my body from Earth to the sky to feel the sun glow bright inside my heart till I become first flash of the big bang and remember flaring forth into suns as planets that nurture organic gods. Floating over sand dunes of divine breath, I feel the sun strike the bell of my soul which vibrates psychic spirit of the void which flows and swirls through waves of particles which spiral into planets blooming souls as humans giving each other god names. Assembling puzzle of sand dunes with words, we code cultural ideas into memes which replicate across landscapes of hope when people translate shaman songs of tropes to build Bridge of Remembrance between minds as jesters mock mad kings on windy heaths. We climb sand dunes where the moon meditates since ghosts are absence of the ones we love who haunt us with their voices in the wind revealing how we transform from the sea through beams of starlight in bipedal form as fish evolving into singing gods.
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