Vibrant Energy Of Life

Vibrant Energy Of Life
© Surazeus
2026 01 07

On the day after the end of the world, 
when birds and trees are somehow not the same, 
I think about where to find my true love 
by sailing ship of love around the Earth 
because I am not Perseus nor Paris, 
fated to live out our own tragic romance. 

Though Chiron taught Achilles how to play 
lyre of Mercury with aggressive plan 
to shatter walls of Ilium from rage, 
I learn love-craft from Ovid, expert bard 
who chases Daphne to the laurel tree 
while wearing mask of Phoebus he designed. 

Astonished at strange vision of my heart, 
I watch my true love float down from the sky 
with graceful body of Andromeda 
and face of Helen that launches warships 
which I command with courage of mad Mars 
to conquer Greenland and expand my rule. 

Attentive to strange song of the dawn breeze, 
I dance in wondrous zone of unrestraint 
while wandering randomly in global park 
to find Aratus on the Gazing Stone 
who shows how constellations of dead stars 
provide framework for fate to prove my choice. 

Alone on long-abandoned ship of state 
resembling Argos, though with different wood, 
that drifts on swirling tides of social change, 
I drink by moonlight on the seven seas 
that shimmers with ethereal souls of gods 
who make my shadow flicker on dark waves. 

When Aphrodite plays the saxophone 
as priestess healing trauma with weird tunes, 
I lie back under wounded Tree of Knowledge 
because I must accept the world is broken 
and never will become one global system 
where every person lives in paradise. 

Mind mirrored by dream-glazed reality 
reflecting faceless ghosts of absent souls 
who lived and died the past ten million years, 
I drink electric cider of the heart 
and dance in superstitious wisps of mist 
with unperturbed tranquility of faith. 

Since my heart feels like hub of the whole world, 
I open wide angelic wings of trust 
which radiates my love to every soul 
so I feel vibrant energy of life 
that rhymes in melodies of songs we share 
on the day after the end of the world. 

Hyperverse Within My Heart

Hyperverse Within My Heart
© Surazeus
2026 01 07

Too simple for my mind to understand, 
this world expands through multimodal strands, 
weaving many unrelated events 
in pulsing tapestry of social tides 
on which I sail my fragile ship of state 
to design my own complex twist of fate. 

Reluctant to admit I cannot see 
complete landscape of multiversal swirls, 
I set out to explore this little globe 
that spins alone in vastness of my heart 
so I may categorize objects of sense 
in catalog that notes all ideal forms. 

Amazed at variant beauty of this world, 
composed of special versions from each form, 
I aspire to map the whole hyperverse 
that spirals from first flash of the big bang 
in countless galaxies with countless stars 
that nurture countless worlds with countless souls. 

Though I feel enormous in my own mind 
that glows bright with divine consciousness, 
which emanates as function of my brain 
through flashing sparks of neural chemicals, 
I am one small and temporary soul 
that dreams too briefly through eternity. 

Mapping the hyperverse within my heart, 
I chronicle through animating gods 
rise and fall of empires sparked by their minds 
which clash in endless global game of thrones 
till grand illusions of national greatness 
are scattered by relentless winds of change. 

Alone I find myself on signless road, 
faceless version of my ancestral soul 
alive four hundred million years of growth 
through countless generations of new forms, 
fish to lizard to mouse to cat to monkey 
to wingless angel who strives to know God. 

I feel relentless drive of energy 
fuel my ambitious quest to generate 
new children who embody in their brains 
immortal soul of genes as conscious mind 
who transcends death through song of hope we sing 
till wind of time snuffs out my spirit flame. 

Like tree that expresses passion of life 
through every apple blooming from its limbs, 
I sing conceptual vision of my truth 
that maps the hyperverse within my heart 
so I know how to incarnate my soul 
in children who forget my name when I die. 

Unframed By Bitter Faith

Unframed By Bitter Faith
© Surazeus
2026 01 06

Blatant ontology of broken brains 
defines organic blasphemy of fate 
we gamble to assess progress of life 
through fact-confounding maze of travesty, 
backward stumbling to transcend bleak despair 
that becomes wings for flight instead of weight. 

Young woman wearing camera eyes for gain 
keeps searching for soul mate to oscillate 
opposing states of mind that balance right 
gyrating patterns swiftly harmonized 
through disparate concessions breaking stride 
because she thinks she misheard what he said. 

Heat vibrating invisibly from road 
of asphalt arrogance, that shields her heart, 
strips all illusions from her clacking mind, 
so she recalculates conceptual sleight 
from skilled dexterity of sharp insight 
when she adjusts strike of brave stratagem. 

Widened access easement back to her heart 
attracts assertive focus of concern, 
contrived to mimic romance out of turn, 
twice allocating ardent faith in love 
by gratefully extending cautious hand 
that tests attentive sturdiness of trust. 

Born blind from mission unassigned by God 
to preach salvation of cliff-breaking waves, 
she proves communal worth of clever claims 
by misdirecting eyes of innocence 
so we are glamored by her vagrant spell 
presenting untruth framed by casual hope. 

When she delivers plate of nutrients, 
we praise her passion for the parasite, 
then listen as she dances on bright stage 
to sing tale of the hero we admire 
whose deeds opposing tyrant of cruel greed 
clears space for us to thrive in fertile peace. 

Minerva holds hacked head of Midas high 
to show the world his tyranny is done, 
but thieves of honesty with grasping hands 
slither slavishly from his severed brain 
as devils that invade our paradise 
and strip ripe apples from the Tree of Life. 

Designing truth unframed by bitter faith, 
she waves high flag of global liberty 
to guide our revolution of the heart 
so we transcend fierce anger with calm plan 
to build new nation of Zarathia 
from ruined empire of America. 

Uncertain Waves Of Time

Uncertain Waves Of Time
© Surazeus
2026 01 06

She waits beside the dead elm on the hill 
for eighty thousand sparrows to emerge 
from laughing skull of Hamlet before dawn 
till horde of Vikings storm the temple hall 
to hang the minister of state affairs 
whose eyes are television screens of glass. 

She climbs colossus of fear with lame hands 
by dreaming doorway of warm days gone by 
till Earth of fake dreams disappears in myths 
that flutter mad wings fraught from memory 
of Death singing on streetcorners at dawn 
to chase the monster of depravity. 

She seals stark crack of starless night with blood 
to prove she loves with ache of bitter seeds 
sly ghost of silence with alacrity 
despite his deeds of stealing masonry 
from walls of paradise built by our hands 
before winds scatter pages of weird books. 

She wanders with uncertain waves of time 
beyond forever veiled by mist of fate 
to carry teardrops from pulsating lake 
that we acquire by potent loyalty 
with flawless anguish through obscurity 
because we know about the sudden moon. 

She drags her dazzling soul across the world 
with heavy sorrow of escaping boats 
bound by frail anchor to false sense of time 
each hour torrential waters of our mouths 
adjust our point of view with slanting rays 
against nocturnal passion of glass skulls. 

She twirls prodigious globe of fractured souls 
through muting maelstrom of excessive maps, 
encircled by caressing hands of care 
too beautiful to love beyond each death 
erasing laughter from the circus tent 
as long as we remain on spinning Earth. 

She measures silhouette of nameless souls 
enhanced by shocking chains of consequence 
that unspool luminous threads through respect 
for harmony with flames of hopelessness 
from masks invisible to curious eyes 
because we want to give each other names. 

She understands soft chime of honesty 
contained by faint resentment children sell 
to shield the fragile mind of consciousness 
from sweet excruciating pain of faith, 
mature with iridescent thoughts we share 
till we drown in colossal pool of words. 

Perform My Authentic Self

Perform My Authentic Self
© Surazeus
2026 01 05

The more I perform my authentic self 
by expressing strange aspects of my being, 
the more I find in shadows of my heart 
different versions of Me I want to play, 
till I integrate their opposing aspects 
in one whole self revealed by many masks. 

The mad king withers in the castle tower 
while clutching book of stories to his chest, 
but stares at young girl dancing with the flower 
around blind teacher in the cemetery 
where blackbirds talk about philosophy 
with wingless angels eating apple pies. 

The sad priest lingers in the tangled garden 
beneath marble statue of Mother Mary, 
who cradles baby Jesus in cold arms, 
and listens to the young girl with the flower 
sing haunting melody with clarity 
designed to resurrect our souls from death. 

The humble carpenter beside the river 
gathers swords and shields with indifferent hands 
from mangled corpses of barons and knights 
while ghosts explain the secret of success 
revealed by windows in cathedral walls 
refracting sunlight through our fragile bodies. 

Death gazes through the window of my heart 
to count the countless masks of secret selves 
that shimmer in the ancient gallery 
with gentle madness of the golden truth 
preserved in psychic code of fairy tales 
providing framework for our brave lifestyle. 

The honest shipwright with the broken lyre 
copies sea map that Waldseemueller drew 
depicting strange land of America 
framed by universal cosmography 
so I can return home to Avalon 
where Mary sings in Glastonbury Tor. 

The divine savior with celestial wings 
pilots hot air balloon across the sky 
above small bands of hunter-gatherers 
who gasp when bright angel descends on wings 
and teaches them to plant crops and write letters, 
then ascends to Heaven in flashing disk. 

Every mask in the ancient gallery, 
which I purchase from the Many-Faced God, 
represents ancestral soul of my genes 
who generates new life before they die 
because they all wake in my consciousness, 
contending till I morph them in One Me. 

Reward Success With Shame

Reward Success With Shame
© Surazeus
2026 01 05

Cathedral blanked by immaculate light 
fades into shadows of murmuring waves 
sealed by thoughtless insignias of love 
to highlight weird brokenness of this world 
which no existing savior would dare heal 
by striding against surging tides of change. 

Marvelous strangeness, angels paint on masks 
worn by humans famous on stage of power, 
radiates from laughing clock of random fate 
which no arrogant man can force to change, 
though fools attempt to calculate its path 
by acting boldly against global laws. 

Each sparrow that falls where sad flowers bloom 
considers features of the fractured face 
that smiles behind ice mirror of the sky 
where each conscious human alive on Earth 
perceives their thoughts reflected in its code 
defined by broken rainbows of the sea. 

Our nation that mushrooms from rotting gods 
erects grand monuments to misery 
that celebrate struggles of the common folk 
who pay their bills with empty promises 
expressed by crippled mouth of human dreams 
based in sacrificial halls of state pride. 

Blind ghosts of cardinals with trembling hands 
haunt bank vaults that shimmer with jars of oil 
bleeding from sterile mountains of despair 
to fuel conceptual engines of our hearts 
though we still kneel before idol of Thor 
whose hammer splinters shale of bubbling wells. 

Thirsty angels gather in church of steel 
and sing anthem to beautiful oil wells 
that fuel the dream machine of global fame 
where mortals play gods on the silver screen 
with eloquent corruption of hot air 
based on superstitions of stolen wealth. 

Communal dream of fake America, 
contrived by natural selection of gods, 
includes diverse identities of power 
who fight for access to the Ivory Tower, 
for someone always plays King of the Game, 
commissioned to reward success with shame. 

Reborn from failure as the global demon 
who rules the world from the Garden of Eden, 
I wear mask of every human on Earth 
because we live by one firm principle, 
that we live as we will, if we harm none, 
though some fool always tries to seize control. 

Invested In Our Truth

Invested In Our Truth
© Surazeus
2026 01 04

When we get too invested in our truth, 
contrived from our one-sided memories 
which feature us as heroes of our tales 
yet victims of oppressors we despise, 
that we get trapped in ever-shifting maze 
with fun-house mirrors of distorted truths. 

While Hannah hides on bridge of sorrowing, 
lamenting fall from grace of liberty 
by soaring high angelic wings of hope, 
she spies young boy with heart weighed down by pain, 
so she hides mute in shadow of his fear 
to watch him stand on thin edge of despair. 

When boy with twisted wings of bitter angst 
climbs narrow rail on bridge of sorrowing, 
poised to leap into bottomless abyss, 
Hannah vaults from shadow of concern 
to retrieve his soul from lake of despair, 
saving him though she falls into dark gloom. 

Sinking deep into nothingness of fear, 
Hannah floats in gleam of timeless light 
that beams from wordless eye of the sun god 
who always watches her with dreamless mind, 
so she designs weird mask she wants to wear 
when she performs her social role in faith. 

Emerging from collective consciousness, 
as Venus born from mother sea of light, 
Hannah stands on large radiant scallop shell, 
veiled by long swirling curls of golden hair, 
and dances gracefully in gentle breeze 
blown by Zephyrus and Aura with love. 

Waking suddenly from frightening dream 
where she runs helpless in maze of locked doors 
to escape desire of the Minotaur, 
Hannah sits up in bed of tangled rage 
and glares at her husband drunk on the couch 
who sneers that her children despise her face. 

Spooked by disgust twisting his face with hate, 
Hannah stuffs backpack with photos and hopes, 
then joins thirty monks on their walk for peace 
to escape his cage after forty years 
since he trapped her heart in marriage of fear, 
and cries in moonlight for children estranged. 

Hysterical with terror at abuse, 
Hannah shouts at ghosts that haunt signless road 
till she arrives at bridge of sorrowing 
where faceless boy who saved her drowning soul 
gives her photo album of memories 
that transform into wrens on dead tree limbs. 

Good Times Gone

Good Times Gone
© Surazeus
2026 01 04

When old acquaintance is forgot 
in strange dreams never mine, 
I give away cheap hopes I bought 
to pretend I am fine. 
I walk the signless road of hope 
to find soul mate I love, 
but sliding down the slippery slope 
I fall through fate above. 

For good times gone, my friend, 
we drink apple wine 
to warm our hearts in bitter wind 
by the road sign. 

I search for your face in the moon, 
or in swift river flow, 
then sing with love heart-aching tune 
alone in swirling snow. 
Though we explored lush hills of youth 
to gather juicy fruit 
I play role of messiah sleuth, 
untangling psychic root. 

For good times gone, my friend, 
we drink apple wine 
to gaze far down the curving bend 
past the road sign. 

Because our national world view 
fractures into state lies, 
I go on quest to find the True 
that gleams in human eyes. 
I build new Eden of my heart 
where all may dwell in peace, 
secure in freedom of the chart 
that seals our social lease. 

For good times gone, my friend, 
we drink apple wine 
to claim dream wings that angels rend 
near the road sign. 

Should mad king steal the global crown 
to enslave us with fear, 
we resurrect the noble clown 
to beat the puppeteer. 
We wave high flag of Liberty 
with brave hearts strong in faith, 
then strike down fools of tyranny 
to exorcise the wraith. 

For good times gone, my friend, 
we drink apple wine 
to build new state with polished brand 
through the road sign.

Stone-Hearted Men

Stone-Hearted Men
© Surazeus
2026 01 04

I dare to call myself human since light 
defines container of my hungry hope 
that guides halting steps to the edge of time 
where I watch blazing eye of timeless hum 
born from strange darkness of the tangled tree 
that sings with wordless passion of the wind. 

Echo of invisible thoughts vibrates 
through sudden flash of dark in stolid hills, 
revealing endless rows of silent roofs 
that shelter fragile flames of human souls 
from hard relentless rain of nothingness 
that drenches minds with stories of desire. 

Hard stone of solitude on wind-lashed plain 
transforms into Stone Man with spider eyes 
who trudges solemnly on river shore 
where jagged rocks explain contempt of death 
expressed through power of assertive hands 
that grasp material strangeness of the wind. 

Fearful of death that crushes souls of men 
with sudden strike of sharp spear in the flesh, 
Stone Man adores power of his strong hands 
that twist wind into stones he builds in walls, 
constructing haven that secures safe space 
where bodies of survivors may relax. 

Two girls in leather skirts run frantically 
across the desolate plain of jagged rocks, 
chased by pack of wolves with flesh-tearing teeth, 
so Stone Man runs to assist their escape 
by batting rocks with wand of respect 
that stun wolf heads and knock them in the dust. 

Providing shelter inside walls of stone 
to people lost in wilderness of pain, 
who escape gangs of thieves and packs of wolves, 
Stone Man teaches them to tend apple trees 
and cultivate herbs blooming from hard soil, 
so they cooperate in producing food. 

So many stone-hearted men with blank names 
sheltered people lost in the wilderness, 
creating Heaven in waste land of Hell 
where we assemble at stark flash of dawn 
to eat and sing tales of moral success 
in rituals that become religious states. 

All we can ever do in flow of time 
is savor beautiful strangeness that gleams 
through vibrant mirror of eternal now 
since religions are clubs which venerate 
books that chronicle lives of honest men 
with hearts of stone who build Heaven in Hell. 

Global Game Of Fame

Global Game Of Fame
© Surazeus
2026 01 04

Reptilian core of my aggressive brain 
wants to compete in global game of fame 
on mission to play God of psychic power, 
but I prefer to meditate in peace 
by breathing calmly under the fig tree, 
ignoring frantic energy of hope. 

When haughty spirit of Marsyas howls 
with passionate desire of bitter pride 
to challenge Apollo in game of song, 
I turn away from stage of global fame 
and journey in the waste land of desire 
to expel that demon from my base heart. 

When Apollo binds Marsyas to the tree 
to remove mask of his face from his soul 
and hang it in Temple of the Erased, 
I suppress my desire for global fame 
because divine power of prophecy rules 
punishment for mortal fools who seek fame. 

No Jesus writhing on the cross of fame, 
nor Odin hanging over well of runes, 
I seek calm bird-song solitude of groves, 
with Shelley on the Arno River shore 
or with Keats in garden of the plum tree, 
to compose chronicle of human dreams. 

Instead of suffering agony for fame, 
chosen by Zeus to sing his prophecies 
that satirize pride of arrogant kings 
and eulogize humility of heroes, 
I want to live in peaceful harmony 
with my wife and kids while mapping the world. 

With feathers of angels from paradise, 
as quills I dip in demonic blood ink, 
I write serpentine spells of riddle verse 
with electric runes in blessing and curse 
to chronicle quest of the mortal mind 
that seeks enlightenment as the God Soul. 

My songs are spells on fragile autumn leaves, 
which translate weird song of the nightingale, 
then blow away in swirls of the west wind 
to scatter seeds of long-forgotten dreams 
as dust that sparkles on soft desert dunes 
where the prophet speaks with the snake of death. 

When I hear voices of the human race 
pulse passionately behind their placid face, 
I transcribe riddles of their frantic hopes 
to idolize human minds in myth tropes 
when we all sing in global choir of souls 
who dissipate in waves on ancient shoals. 

Motionless Now Of Fate

Motionless Now Of Fate
© Surazeus
2026 01 03

Never quite as faithful as river stones, 
my tongue expresses language slippages 
with slither-frantic agony of truth 
through automatic rainbow laughter flight 
to swim across sea of unconsciousness 
till I stand stunned on island of blind ghosts. 

Dark bottom of the river shimmers clear 
with brackish hunger for ironic fear 
burnt by aggressive flames of deepest gloom 
that bloom assertive fragments of weird tales 
with unrestraint respect from tangled bones 
that surface from garden soil of brave faith. 

My compact body of attentive grasp 
breathes dear forgotten details of old plans 
because we gather soil onto our masks 
while turning over and over in graves, 
warped by celebrity of accursed fame 
that devours our brains with lust for fake love. 

Together bound by constant hope for truth, 
we climb more mountains than exist on Earth 
to find the sacred garden of the world 
where everyone who suffers daily pain 
longs to hide bodies behind modesty 
though flowers consume our electric brains. 

Still waiting in motionless now of fate 
with scattered pieces of fake memories, 
I slowly assemble puzzle of time 
from every story ever told by mouths 
that breathe possible theories of desire, 
contrived by indifferent god of the sun. 

Extracted from landscape of yesterday 
by shocking words of comatose contempt, 
I note surprising beauty of each truth 
that crawls from relentless swamp of desire 
to calculate endless nowhere of hope 
since we are stranded in Eden at dawn. 

Because our ever-watching eyes die first 
as tears seep through cracked wall of ardency, 
you steal sweet coconuts with crippled hands 
from angels stuck in storybooks of gods 
while I pretend to play king of the Earth 
so I can tend our stable horse with care. 

Couched in convoluted space of star light, 
I brew wine of sorrow from emptiness 
so faith ferments with adorable jokes 
till we betray our sacred principles 
by throwing river stones in desert sand 
then herding cows that will never come home. 

Devils He Conjured

Devils He Conjured
© Surazeus
2026 01 03

Each hour I leap up to my faceless god 
in vain attempt to transcend reckless time, 
and outwit stars that allotted my soul 
this twisted nature that flings me to Hell, 
I think I shall escape devils of rage 
that emerge from my heart born from free will. 

I realize whose arrogance pulls me down 
when I attempt to leap beyond this life 
against the ever-moving spheres of fate 
that trap me in this body tense with lust, 
for I see clear in mirror of my heart 
I am that devil who clutches my soul. 

As Christ once suffered on the cross of pride 
to offer blood of brave divinity 
with selfless love to cleanse the wretched soul 
by swirling in the firmament of faith, 
he proves grim principle of social truth 
that wily tyrants defeat honest men. 

This shining soul of vibrant energy 
that emanates from frail body of flesh 
is conjured by electric chemicals 
which nurture pulsing neural net of dreams 
so I wake from this temporary form 
that soon will vanish into nothingness. 

Grave Pythagoras gazing at bright stars 
imagined we are flames of energy 
that beam down from celestial realm of light 
to animate this frame of flesh with love, 
then beam back up again when bodies die, 
but he has never returned since his death. 

Haughty Faustus thinks he sold his soul 
to wise Light Maker high among bright stars 
so he conspires to twist the social scheme 
with tricks that favor fortune of his greed 
by strutting on world stage with haughty pride, 
asserting right to exploit us for gain. 

This bitter weakling, who crowns himself king 
contrary to our republican laws, 
betrays bold principles of liberty 
on which we maintain process of our state 
ensuring justice and freedom for all, 
and thus devils he conjured drag him down. 

No Christ, yet to rise bold from social need, 
will save that greedy Midas from his fate, 
which he contrives from every choice he makes, 
so his own traitorous deeds of cruel hate 
will come as devils sprung from his foul heart 
to drag him down to Hell that he designed. 

Hearth Of Ilium

Hearth Of Ilium
© Surazeus
2026 01 03

Ilium has grown since the Trojan War 
over thirty-two centuries of expansion  
through empires of Athens, Macedonia, 
Roma, and Britain to America, 
mutating process of social control 
to construct United Nations of Earth. 

Heirs to ancient sociological codes, 
that favor unity of special states 
where all are equal under one fair law, 
we fight with honest passion of respect 
to ensure each breathing soul born from hope 
has freedom to achieve their goals in life. 

Though Achilles still kills Hector in rage 
to destroy the city that controls truth, 
Odysseus always finds his way back home 
to manage estate of farms growing crops 
and rebuild community of his clan 
till time erases us all from the land. 

Though time wrecks temple of wisdom we built 
with vision Pericles projects through faith, 
where well-trained women manage social growth, 
the glorious Parthenon of fertile love 
shines brightly in our hearts to sustain play 
where we perform our social roles with pride. 

Each empire we design to manage fear, 
that grows from ruins of the previous state, 
reconstitutes programs of social games 
through more complex system of legal keys 
that might operate checks and balances 
providing capital to fund dream power. 

Battered by external forces of greed, 
that shake foundation of firm principles 
when Achilles traitorously attacks 
to crown himself king and marry the goddess, 
we unite our hearts with courageous faith 
to protect Liberty against his hate. 

Though our federation of special states, 
bound in republic for the common good, 
appears to fracture from opposing goals 
when greedy Midas obtrudes tyranny, 
we rally round bright sword Minerva wields 
to free our state from blind dictatorship. 

Hearth of Ilium, lit by divine flames 
which animate our world democracy, 
still shines within heart of America 
to nurture sense of justice in our minds, 
providing guidance of social respect 
when Jesus helps us defeat evil kings. 

Temple Of One Mother World

Temple Of One Mother World
© Surazeus
2026 01 03

I stand inside the stillness of your heart 
to feel translucent beauty of the world 
illuminate the countless conscious souls 
who swirl around in hurricanes of dreams 
that cycle through transforming states of being 
till gods of nations dissipate to faith. 

As fading afterthought of social change, 
I am no more than memory of dawn light 
that traces path of hope in maze of streets 
to faintly grow in shell of hopeful home 
that scatters into butterflies of time 
who seek the garden though it vanishes. 

I leap outside the stillness of my heart 
to spread wide clumsy wings of loyal faith, 
though social forces toss my fragile soul 
in random swirls of frantic energy 
beyond all symbols of forgotten myths 
till I become stone idol of your god. 

Though Fortune knocks at door of bitter faith 
to share new formulas for mental strength 
that help me manage winds of social change, 
I bend adjusted rays of solitude 
that slant through vast cathedrals of fake truth 
to find our light in darkness of despair. 

I flail beyond the stillness of my heart, 
yet grasp at yearning for security 
to balance oscillation between truths 
through endless spirals of returning lies 
revealing hidden secrets I assert 
which fuel my frantic flight of fortitude. 

Absolved of guilt that twists my hopeful heart 
from calm neglect maintaining old world view 
that guided global play of give and take, 
I scatter puzzling secrets in wild wind 
depicting each mistake I made from pride 
till all my fragments constitute weird rain. 

I twirl back to the stillness of my heart 
to dance with Dionysian grace of trust 
that I have strength to grow from solid facts 
as radiant ghost presenting honest spells 
designed to weave new world view for mankind 
that integrates religions in one truth. 

My face that gleams in mirror of world mind 
contains the face of every human being 
who wakes from solitude of mangled faith 
to weave our spirits in new global soul 
enshrined in Temple of One Mother World 
so we stand in the stillness of her heart. 

House Where Angels Live

House Where Angels Live
© Surazeus
2026 01 02

Our dead ocean that fills my mind with ghosts 
proves my soul is no bigger than the Earth 
though my body swells huge as galaxies 
that nurture conscious brains with twinkling eyes 
because they watch my life from the night skies 
as if they see the real me in my mask. 

Existing whole between Never and Now 
that bridges eternity through unsleep, 
I leap over silence between loud words 
to measure sense of crashing consciousness 
that lets me escape meaning gods invent 
to trap humans in mute worshipful trance. 

Though I would save the butterfly of fate, 
I feel confidence of the rolling stone 
that I will never save the broken world, 
so I will record the forgotten name 
of every breath-conscious organic being 
who ever wakes from nothingness of light. 

Yet when I write the holy book of truth 
in vain attempt to save the spinning world, 
I will sing till dream words explode in flames 
that freeze into the house where angels live 
that might preserve strange stories never told, 
then hang out at the Pegasus Cafe. 

When Phoebus strums guitar of naked joy, 
free Venus dances in the apple grove, 
Mars hunts dream demons in the jungle hills, 
Beowulf works in the car factory, 
and Thor erects office tower of steel 
where Zeus presides over his global bank. 

They built the empire I see fall today, 
so I find no ruins in the waste land 
where I could shore my fragments of fake truth, 
yet every photograph ever preserved 
is flash of light in timeless cyberspace 
that together form the global God Face. 

Since innocence of death shines in our eyes 
till we are born from seaweed of the mind, 
we linger on the endless road back home 
through speculation of the mindless sun 
who seems indifferent to our bitter pain, 
yet nourishes our bodies with fresh fruit. 

My reverent kiss of loyal clemency 
may bring the waveless ocean back to life, 
so I will name each faceless ghost of hope 
who deigns appear from dream-unspooling words 
trapped in the holy book no one dares read, 
except the girl who was born before light. 

Moon Mirror Of Fate

Moon Mirror Of Fate
© Surazeus
2026 01 02

If the cloud is still free from moral guilt 
after fifty years floating in his brain, 
then she will serve no sacrificial cakes 
to the boy who turns stones into snowflakes, 
because he loves Andromeda with pride 
though she clamps bulletless rifle of fame. 

He plays trill sonata the devil wrote 
because she searches for the flower seed 
that sprouts from tangled words in holy books 
which no one anymore takes time to read 
though he waits on the bridge of somewhere else 
to play the aviator she would wed. 

He thinks the strange sky is hilarious, 
but she waits in old theater of stars 
for him to find her puzzle in the pond 
enclosed inside walls of the grocery store 
where he carves horses from fierce bars of soap 
to build his army and claim the White House. 

She decides that their trees by the dirt road, 
where angels of ice dance in blazing sunlight, 
should be partners in their chess game of love, 
so they lie where the honeysuckles bloom 
and talk about what their first kiss should mean 
as if blind men decide how they should live. 

Laughing with delight at his fear of faith, 
she draws admission ticket to her heart, 
so he gives her glass of water with grin 
that causes every clock on Earth to spin 
faster than leaves that flutter in fake wind, 
then discovers America again. 

She reminds him of what she said before, 
that we are half air and half dirt of hope, 
so they study snowy map of despair 
and decide how they should open the door 
that leads them to the land of empty homes 
where children disappear in words of books. 

We cannot win the game of broken trees, 
she whispers when he floats on the moon breeze, 
so they hold hands with trust in numbers game 
that keeps their bodies rooted to the Earth 
as they transform to piston-engine cars 
that drive endless circles under dead stars. 

Where have we all gone the past fifty years, 
he asks the ghost in moon mirror of fate, 
since the cheerful cloud of guilt first appeared 
above lost temple of the holy land 
where she still floats one inch above the Earth 
for she designs the dream world where we live. 

Global Dream Choir

Global Dream Choir
© Surazeus
2026 01 01

So many angels walk around on Earth 
who sing essential spells of spirit birth 
with pure transcendent voice of holy fire 
in harmony with our global dream choir, 
I cross broken bridge of forgetfulness 
to sing with passion in the wilderness. 

Each rare unearthly singer with star eyes, 
who floats on silken wings from rainbow skies, 
brings sacred message from immortal wraith 
in lyric lantern that beams light of faith 
transforming sorrow to pure happiness 
with angel voice of sacred earnestness. 

Amphibian god from swamp of psychic code 
helps blaze noble institutional road 
where members of the inner club may waltz 
in secret chamber of their private vaults 
as they boost each other with tenderness 
to hide imposter state of bitterness. 

Because bright angels of poetic wit, 
whose spells make genius verse seem counterfeit, 
float just above bland surface of the world, 
they must oppose game of the cosmic herald 
whose eerie spells expose their phoniness 
contrived from twisting states of loneliness. 

Approached by frantic ghost of clemency, 
each floating angel of importancy 
steals memories from weak faceless entities 
to earn vain social fame from fractured keys 
based on denial of blind selfishness 
that satisfies no hungry hollowness. 

Trapped by assertive lust for global fame, 
that casts their puerile souls in fervid game, 
untethered angels clutching scrolls of verse 
find their mad Muse crippled by its curse 
that morphs their souls with haughty greediness 
to mute robotic clowns of clumsiness. 

Entranced by solemn psalms of angel bards, 
tricked by misfortune of fallacious cards, 
we gather piously in temple halls 
to hear brave poems echo off sterile walls 
that spin our brains with grammar dizziness 
in lines free of constraining luckiness. 

So many angels crowd vast maze of myths 
to vie for laurels beneath monoliths, 
that I evade conceptual language spells 
to find demonic runes in vision wells 
refracting insight of sly wariness 
which unmask thirsty ghouls of holiness. 

Wear Mask Of Jesus

Wear Mask Of Jesus
© Surazeus
2026 01 01

I find my old story painted in snow 
by talons of ravens with moon-gold eyes 
that watch me with smirks on the castle wall 
where I find fallen crown of Anne Boleyn 
whose bright ghost haunts me everywhere I go 
so I sit at desk of sorrow and write. 

Right now my heart beats with cold winter wind 
that chills bones of people shopping at noon 
for presents they plan to give their loved ones 
where cars with piston engines stop and go 
at flash of lights bright as draconic eyes 
so I ache to soar high in silver skies. 

Spies record every little thing I do 
as I wander randomly about town 
past the gate of traitors where ribbons hang 
to indicate right way through maze of myths 
where people of nations wander in fear 
so I topple idols of their dead gods. 

Squads of gangsters paid by the government 
try to arrest innocent citizens 
but people who work in stores and hotels 
film their nefarious deeds with eye-phones 
then gather around the fountain of tears 
so I lead lost souls from the underworld. 

Curled on my lap on first day of the year, 
my cat with demonic eyes of respect 
purrs as I caress her long forest fur 
while watching drama about small-town kids 
who fight cruel monsters of the Rightside Up 
so I play wizard on holy crusade. 

Spade in hands of the humble working man 
glistens in sunlight at construction site 
as I dig up soil of the town soccer field 
to pour cement as foundation of faith 
for church that honors the crucified king 
so I design religion based on truth. 

Booth of the fortune teller by the bank 
glows with mysterious light of the moon 
when Madame Sosostris with serpent eyes 
reveals my secret name Tiresias 
transformed by Hera to girl in long dress 
so I play Judy Garland on world stage. 

Caged by diagnostics of world events 
through frantic architecture of blind greed, 
we mimic wingless angels to rebel 
against mind control of the puppeteer 
who preaches supremacy of his god 
so I wear mask of Jesus to the show. 

Brave Children Of Our Love

Brave Children Of Our Love
© Surazeus
2026 01 01

Another spin around the shining sun 
returns my body to fountain of light 
where I swim laughing in the dreamless deep 
to mold my passion into juicy fruit 
that flushes my veins with electric blood 
so I resurrect from grave of my heart. 

Evolving now four hundred million years, 
I transform life after life to become 
Idea of God that gleams in my mind 
as goal toward which I strive with ache of love 
through passion of the conscious brain I am 
to transcend nothingness of wordless sleep. 

I walk the signless road on quest for truth 
around the spinning world ten thousand times, 
forever lost on boundless plain of time 
where I build homes from anguish of respect 
as tombs that shelter my ancestral skulls 
while I continue on another dawn. 

Fast forward on the endless road of hope 
I fly toward vision of paradise lost 
where I tend fruit trees of my broken heart 
that bloom with treasure of the shining sun 
transforming rain to energy of love 
so we can dance another hour till death. 

Each flower blooming from corpse of my heart 
remembers every life of driving pain 
that my ancestors lived from birth to birth 
which motivates my lonely quest to find 
pure spark of light in darkness of my brain 
till I expand my conscious scope as God. 

I wake each morning eighty million years 
reborn in new form of immortal genes 
to walk vast landscape of this cluttered globe 
and fight for life against aggressive hate 
so I survive each cycle of rebirth 
against the greedy puppeteer of power. 

I hide my face behind hard mask of faith 
to shield my soul against consuming fear 
so I transcend relentless swirl of death 
beyond brutal fate of Achilles Christ 
as I evade destruction long enough 
to generate new child before I die. 

Another spin around the mindless sun 
reveals four hundred million years of change 
as perfect vision of our life on Earth 
because we struggle against pain and fear 
to find our soul mate on the road of hope 
so we become brave children of our love. 

Our Last Sad Farewell

Our Last Sad Farewell
© Surazeus
2026 01 01

There was no time for our last sad farewell, 
Martha whispers to the time-wilted tree 
as she kneels on frozen mud in bare field 
near the wheel-worn road past abandoned farm, 
and shivers in tattered dress of her youth 
though the sun is small and green in gray clouds. 

If I tell you I love you with pure light 
while time is flowing swift as valley streams 
I fear our love would change and dissipate, 
then everything would flow away with it, 
and vanish into nothingness of fate, 
so I try to stop time to express love. 

Gray wisps of hair tangled by winter wind 
veil her wrinkled face with wordless pain 
as withered hands press against frozen mud 
where she buried him thirty years before, 
and wonders if he knows she is still here, 
aching with desire to see his lost face. 

Ghosts of young lovers dance around old woman, 
her younger self and man she madly loves, 
on warm spring evening thirty years before 
when they embraced and laughed with careless joy 
from calm confidence they would be together 
forever in paradise of their hearts. 

I never thought our time of joyful love 
would be short as three seasons of wild spring 
before that gang of thieves stabbed you with spears 
for defending our fruit grove with brave faith, 
nor that I would survive your sudden death 
more than thirty years of persistent hope. 

My skin, once clean as ripe rain-nourished apples, 
is wrinkled now as stiff hoof-trampled mud, 
but you are still young in my memories, 
eyes sparkling with mischievous energy 
as he crept up behind me with sly plan 
to steal another kiss with tender care. 

Inhaling bitter wind with resigned faith, 
Martha slowly stands on frail trembling legs 
and trudges from grave of her youthful love 
toward crumbling shack where she still lives alone, 
but stops halfway to vain eternity 
when gang of children call her evil witch. 

Tears freeze on her cheeks as they dance around 
and throw hateful stones that bruise her frail arms, 
and she trembles, battered by their hard kicks, 
when she collapses prone in the barren field, 
and stares at his face in indifferent clouds 
that shroud her broken body with white snow.