Hour Of The Eerie Glow © Surazeus 2025 03 10 Stuck in my quest at well of Melusine, I lift my frail wings chained by eglantine and sadly rustle their aggressive urge to bathe in whirlpool of the spirit purge, then ponder at hour of the eerie glow electric beauty of vanishing snow. The Social Hero everyone admires, who creates what humanity desires, strides boldly through the city maze of fear to rouse sad people with infectious cheer, who follow him to meadow of wild play where Dionysus teaches them to pray. Entranced by beauty of the Cereal Queen who sings while she drives the harvest machine, peasants migrate to cities of glass towers where they brew honey mead with psychic flowers which people at round tables in cafes drink with calm reverence in their hipster phase. New generation of eager young men, fooled by bankers to believe they can win, join holy crusade to conquer the world in futile war against the cosmic herald who rides fleet-foot son of Bucephalus with important mission for Sisyphus. Collective conscience of the Global Mind, that connects dreaming brains of humankind, presents dramatic game of politics as universal myth of mental tricks performed by tyrant conning us with lies by tricking us to give away our eyes. Drawn from case of my heart with puzzle keys through cabinet of curiosities, the Emerald Tablet, carved with secret code, reveals sacred wisdom of the Dream Toad who rules from Pyramid of the God-Eye by teaching every soul to question why. Returning clockwise through portal of time to hour of revolutionary chime, I prepare to battle tyrant of greed who traps us when he sells us what we need, yet I lament my horse lost in the mist who should act as my mythic synergist. Climatic scene in drama of my life, that highlights how I overcome cruel strife, displays world view of my ontology programmed through atheist theology which fills my heart with fountain of the truth that fuels victory of our messiah sleuth.
Monday, March 10, 2025
Hour Of The Eerie Glow
Unbeckoned Horoscope
Unbeckoned Horoscope © Surazeus 2025 03 10 Trapped in transient sorrow of gravity, luminous with unbalanced loss of love, my heart coaxes me to break free from fear and stand among pine trees on the mountain slope till snow rebuilds my body of soft flesh from frozen tears of angels without eyes. Reborn from round ice-lacquered syllables of endless knowing veiled by mute disgust, my heart swallows forsaken cries with hope death may unloosen angst of mortal lust to chart disaster of propitious days disbursed by naked hand of ownership. Steadfast in primer of false happenstance, accrued through alphabet of solemn curse, my heart adjusts unbeckoned horoscope to signal progress of aggressive search for treasures floating between broken hearts based wholly on one solitary clue. No cause for celebration from regret through dark obliqueness swollen with desire, my heart calculates doled disquietude through legal contract for perpetual calm unheaved by distant storms of restless hope for souls imprisoned by collapsing words. Aged blindly lost in shadows reconciled from fractured mirror of its confidante, my heart deliberates wisdom contrived from stagnant doctrines of old fecund faith devised by dreamers before honest fear abandons children by the faceless pool. Elliptical with mounting games of time that spiral tight-wound galaxies of souls, my heart obsesses over winning points that should impress kind Sagittarius who plants purple lilacs in the dooryard that bloomed last before dark night of despair. Annoyed by flotsam of matter, expressed across vast crystal firmament of faith, my heart peers through its mental telescope to measure cogwheels of the psychic void that grind blindly in our turning globe first mapped and named by grim Chaldean seers. Memories flashing bright as swift asteroids that bounce across blithe brightness of respect, my heart refracts divinity of thought that bulges from magnetic field of wings in buzzing force field shielding Earth from rage, so I hold your hand as we walk our road.
Mad Mountain Seer
Mad Mountain Seer © Surazeus 2025 03 10 In halflight of the rainy afternoon I halfdream about the mad mountain seer who travels from his village in Peru to fight cruel fascists in streets of Paris where the young mother nurses her new child who gives him her hope chest of pulsing stars. Wild hound of his heart escapes prison cell to race among blood-stained poplars of faith where the ancient shepherd Jesus holds high torch of liberty with flame of desire almost snuffed out by brutal winds of war that swirls dirt from newly-heaped mounds of graves. Young weaver girl with factory-wounded hands builds fragile home from cracked bones of dead gods on desolate shore of the lonely stream where the mountain seer carves magic-spell runes on shells of turtles found on the sea strand by the young mother who nurses her child. Extending hand made of water and fear to graft bad fruit on pine of languid hope, the mountain seer, anchored by dirty clothes, lumbers through festival of skeletons to drumbeats and flute-wails among red tents where jesters and ballerinas make love. Exalted unity of hungry spies that fuels singular beat of his heart, urges the mountain seer to talk to God, so he shouts questions at the empty sky about why people must suffer to live when serpents writhe from shadows of false hope. Rain falls on every city in the world with dirty tears of mothers seeking food while mad troubadours howl thunderous hymns to solve the human cipher of our love with sorcery of positive desire though we float in our coffins full of rain. Meeting Osiris by the border wall that divides land of life from nought of death, the mountain seer asks for inheritance which he deserves from his pious ancestors hidden in the electric dream machine which he invents from stolen words of love. Crimson crown of Jesus huge as the moon glows with tragic sweetness of emeralds above pulsing brain of the mountain seer who drinks blue wine from the goblet of fire, then wails mercurial psalms of holy faith that still poisons his haughty gypsy heart.
Sunday, March 9, 2025
New Political Arguments
New Political Arguments © Surazeus 2025 03 09 All those old political arguments fought between capitalists and communists fade into radio static of the past that crackles cables of the world wide web when wizards masked as fascist oligarchs entrance vikings with visions of rich glory. New actors performing on stage of power strut their bold hour before eyes of the world to play noble heroes of ancient epics, but, when their gold masks of noble intent are stripped away by their own acts of greed, hate exposes dark evil in their hearts. I could reduce actions of rectitude powerful people perform to keep power between empathy and indecency, but life is too complex with many groups contending to gain power over Earth to chronicle glory of conquering states. Though music trembles on the silenced harp strummed by the bright-eyed Seraph of lost time, his tears are bombs that shattered old estates with bitter anger of the dispossessed who sing sweet blasphemies in ruined choirs to praise Ungod who never answers prayers. When millions of people, driven from home by hungry gangs of drug-dealers and thieves, cross roadless rugged mountain gap of hope, they follow Moses to the Promised Land where vikings complain about immigrants taking the good jobs they refuse to work. As wingless angel of the spinning Earth I look up at the empty sky to gaze in eyes of God vast as the universe, but see no Revelation of the end, for Earth will keep spinning around the sun billions of years before the sun expands. Thus I will flap my wings in crazy mirth while dancing wild on the heavenly scarp to preach grand message of our World Ungod who sends me as his Prophet to mankind so I declare with booming voice of truth there is no resurrection from the dead. Many new political arguments fought between nationalists and globalists flare from clashes over meaning of life, but We the People fight against oppressors to secure justice and freedom for all who support United Nations of Earth.
Swirling Waves Of Change
Swirling Waves Of Change © Surazeus 2025 03 09 When social revolution sweeps the land we surf swirling waves of change to maintain lithe balance between energy and form to channel rage through political laws which revitalize progress in strong growth while conserving traditional design. Though institutions of strong government have been assembled over centuries to channel forceful energy of lust through official systems of lawful rights, they can be manipulated by greed to enrich the powerful with our wealth. Responding to aggressive grasp for power, that rich men in the past assert to build structures of wealth that too favor their rights, we construct systems of fair governance to spread wealth back to base essential workers who labor most to create profit we share. When oligarchs attain too much control over vast institutions of the state, and openly pilfer wealth we create to benefit themselves at our expense, we raise revolution of civil rights to adjust flow of wealth back to the people. Wise leaders who respect the common man follow example of Jesus the Christ to overthrow rich men who own too much with honest attention to humble needs, then approve contracts of hardworking men to farm fertile fields with laborious pride. All civilizations of vast empires, organized by wise priests with expertise to manage estates of crop fields and herds, are based on hard work of the common man extracting produce from bountiful Earth and distributing goods in market halls. Bankers fund ranches, farms, and factories with speculative capital of wealth so workers create goods from raw materials, while merchants market and distribute goods, but government clerks in judicial courts manage contracts to insure fair rewards. If rich owners feast while poor owners starve, oppressing hungry people of the land as the few hoard wealth while the many work, we must reset state political system to eradicate greed of tyranny and maintain freedom of democracy.
Speed Of My Soul
Speed Of My Soul © Surazeus 2025 03 09 To keep up with the weird speed of my soul I stop before the television screen before it teleports me through all time so I can understand how people feel about quartz angels in the rolling stone that leads refugees from war in the gloom. To calculate the strict speed of my soul I map crazy roads through the Underworld where my ancestors walked before my birth so I can open brand new store in Hell repairing computers rancid with mold that oozes with oil polluting the firth. To analyze the fake speed of my soul I ask the mountain man with jewel eyes for hidden secret of the universe but all that Cronus is willing to tell is why sweet blueness attributes the skies with subtle reference to the holy curse. To randomize the quaint speed of my soul I spin the Wheel of Fortune to test fate against all outcomes augured by bird flight with bold assertion of my mental will to rule the world from secret river boat through sad tunes I play on dragon-bone flute. To overcome the stalled speed of my soul I build new piston-engine of desire to channel spirit of aggressive hope when I drive chariot of Ezekiel roaring down the highway to Zathamar past the desert station where gas is cheap. To allocate the force speed of my soul I meditate in cave of shadow plays where Plato eats fruit of Persephone to prove that our world is slow-spinning ball when I record hymns sung by the world muse to express my psychic epiphany. To ride far on the true speed of my soul I write script for weird television shows depicting how people perceive themselves as most important person on the hill when we play capture the flag through world maze in tribal contest between Bears and Wolves. To chase love with the wise speed of my soul I remove persona mask of my being to reveal my true self on stage of faith when Apollo crowns me with his laurel and Icarus repairs my wounded wing till I become conceptual Poet Wraith.
Strange September Sea
Strange September Sea © Surazeus 2025 03 09 My mother drives the red Volkswagen slow narrow road that winds around silent hills among tall birch trees gleaming white as snow on Sunday afternoon in early Autumn to go somewhere we never went before so we can walk around the anxious lake. Disconnected scenes of fragmented thoughts, boxed in broken sentences of regret, clutter unlit stage after the last show, tattered costumes of undead characters, and masks that represent feelings we hide, heaped in shadow of unspoken despair. So I run down to strange September Sea and wander mute on the heavenly shore while searching for the lush Elysian fields where ghosts of people I once knew may float as silver mist along the gushing stream where I decide to build the Golden Bridge. Awake in raptured vision of this world, I pluck taut strings on lyre of Mercury to sing praise for Warder of Paradise who guards the border to the Promised Land with flaming sword of arrogant disdain for anyone not born with the right glamor. Kneeling before grave of the blonde-haired girl whose sky-blue eyes entranced my heart with love, I weep with sorrow at her early death because the redemption story is false, for after we crumble to Earth in death we never rise to glory in the sky. Yet varied marvels of Nature express artless grandeur of atoms shaping forms that stream with beauty of eternal light still flaring forth from the first flash of love to shine as creatures with bright conscious minds from raptured thoughts of bountiful desire. Even in sequential dreams of free will, when we glow brightly with passion of love, we will find original spark of hope that revives compassion of selfless faith to beam with empathy for living souls which springs from emptiness of Hungry Self. Always capable of love for everyone, we drive cars on newly signified roads to participate in fun social games where strangers give each other secret names, then eat mushrooms and worship the God Toad whose timeless love song vibrates from the sun.
Saturday, March 8, 2025
Slow Swirl Of The Sea
Slow Swirl Of The Sea © Surazeus 2025 03 08 Now that I live free from slow swirl of the sea darkness folds itself as my eager heart when I walk over hills of joyful death to play role of the hermit in their play on the plain where riderless horses wait for the owl of rebirth to explain why. I will not hurry away from the Earth, dazed with sudden insight of idiocy unrelated to broken wheel of light that tumbles blazing down the mountain slope with shocking honesty of rolling stones that crush wood coffin of the holy ghost. Heart pierced with needle found in the haystack by humble warriors seeking absolution, I write stories of the dead on dry leaves that rustle with their voices in dawn breeze despite how men cry for the broken door that leads to asylum for bitter saints. Yet she walks toward me on the campus path past leafless trees of innocent desire with star-sparkle animating her eyes when she hands me red notebook of her dreams which describe how we meet in every life since we always choose to walk the same road. If I decide to leave the city maze to live among the owls and honest wolves extravagantly alone through light phase, I will invent weird language to describe conceptual framework for our mutual love which binds our hearts together without words. I gesture my hands to weave in new wings wild silence that hovers dark over Earth so I can become swiftness of the horse whose elegant grace of assertive will defines process of motion we express while holding hands to walk the moonlit road. For everywhere I go in time and space Saturnus arranges darkness of truth which congeals despair into juicy fruit through desperation of the mindless wind so I can build new Temple of Dead Gods from false ruins of the Enlightenment. Startled by ache of sorrow birthing joy, I long for existence of fiery breath to gleam in rain drops flowing in my veins with constant blackness of eternity which creates me from slow swirl of the sea because I realize I love you so much.
Fueled By Atomic Flares
Fueled By Atomic Flares © Surazeus 2025 03 08 When I hear the sharp chirping of the bird I think it might be perched inside the tree, but when I look at cloud of limbs and leaves I see shadows and beams of striped sunlight, for my eyes cannot discern the feathered fiend that cheers my heart with territorial claims. While I am sitting in the living room before the television on the floor, I wave my plastic sword with martial pride and declare I want to sail my wood ship as eager Viking to conquer the world and bring strange treasures to my fjord-safe home. Arranging puzzle pieces on the table to match photo on cover of its box, that shows the horse grazing in the lush meadow beside the apple tree on the lake shore framed by the snowy range of jagged peaks, I create the world where I want to live. To design world map from my memory that accurately depicts the world that is, I generalize points, lines, and polygons to symbolize landscape of hills and lakes with rivers winding in meadows of flowers, then color each thing with their psychic tone. Though every map I make depicting Earth presents rich landscape of buildings and plants, the human beings who move around its space in quick routines of performative drama cannot be fixed at any point in time for we are flames that glow, then flicker out. If I could fix each flaming soul of life, fueled by atomic flares of beaming hope, their ever-changing forms of psychic being would momentarily freeze into masks that I could hang on bare museum wall in vast Temple of the Many-Faced God. This photo of my temporary face, posted as profile picture on my page, affixed by static flash of timeless growth, which drafts stereotype of me you prefer, contains assertive pulse of energy that flashes in every cell of my being. As fake persona speaking with plain words, I represent every human on Earth who wears the face their ancestors designed by choosing soulmate in romantic hope as we evolve four hundred million years to wingless angels searching for true love.
Zigzag Path From Dream
Zigzag Path From Dream © Surazeus 2025 03 08 Trajectory of my zigzag path from dream arches over mountains of singing trees clockwise between cities of faceless ghosts who all vanish in cold wilderness wind when I leave crowded streets of Babylon to find pure ancient Eden of my mind. Until I express my triumphant speech at witnessing temporal dance of desire I know not how my heart was wounded sore from whispered darkening of the hourglass that measures span of change my soul endures from sweet deception of sincerity. No supernatural god among bright clouds could justify his tyrannical ways for smearing rage on my sensitive skin with abrasive thoughts of controlling hope, intent on judging failures I perform in my quest to fulfill my private dreams. Congenial regret of absolute faith distorts perception of my groping mind to pierce conceptual gloom of wretched fear with gleaming light of ineffectual prayer that darkens bliss oozed from foul loaves of stone poisoned by aggressive lust of contempt. Till I strip off mask of Faustus at dawn to conceal true identity I hate, I try to crack icy distance of faith glazed by will of Heaven to trap my soul with bitter assumptions of fierce conceit that squanders hard-won rewards I entail. Disbursed inheritance of ancient myths, designed to bolster insecure intent with noble attributions fate assigns, restricts assertion of my secret will with clutched accumulations of desire, though lost in mapped landscape of inquiry. Puzzling image of exorbitant truth with polished instrument of gratitude, I perform ritual of expressive spells to study substance that stands under forms consigned to ceremony of regret which cleanses innocence hearts of desire. When I wake startled from sweet dream of love I find my body is composed from tears transformed by chemicals of hungry pain from purified water of mountain streams that spiral through my veins in writhing lust so I remember who I am at last.
Friday, March 7, 2025
Explore Our Crazy World
Explore Our Crazy World © Surazeus 2025 03 07 I have become the gold cloud in the sky with eager laughter of the running horse through passion to explore our crazy world before they blow it up with greedy bombs so only mute trees grow where empires thrived, transforming our bones into juicy fruit. My eyes consume light trapped in shapes of hope composed of secrets people throw away while trapped in tangled tongues of wordlessness with angry penitence of futile faith born from confusing trees of honest rocks that tumble haughtily in gruesome streams. When ghost of God possesses my frail body I impersonate that strange deity with professional parody of faith which channels subconscious angst of desire to be light that fractures galaxies with spinning obsolescence we exchange. While mapping bold catastrophe of hope, the ecstatic pessimist of fake Mars contrives to imitate electric time when he drives truck of curiosity while Bastet rests her paw on his right hand to guide their journey across the waste land. Though Sirius plants the tangerine tree on what he thinks is last day of the world, he walks backward to unspool road of time past all the people rising up from death to find the first tree that grew from the Earth one hundred forty million years ago. Since he thinks greenness is one kind of grief that transforms wounds of sorrow into blooms, he decides he is not going to grow old while building walls of stone with bleeding hands so no one else can eat fruit of his tree which gives us the magic power of speech. I see the planet Jupiter gleam white beside silver joy of the crescent moon, both lights reflected into the surly pool that cleanses my spirit with evening glow hidden in pages of never-read books to preserve memories I share with no one. Gesturing his hands to control the waves, Sirius chants spell based on ocean song so no one can now recognize his face abandoned in dim shadows of lost days to become gold clouds in the morning sky which transforms juicy fruit into his bones.
Same First Mother
Same First Mother © Surazeus 2025 03 07 The fish in the river swim toward the sun to play with children in the field of flowers. The birds in the clouds fly across the mountains to play with children in the city streets. Mothers call children in evening dusk who run home to eat and share funny stories. Though we live on opposite sides of Earth we look at the same stars in the same sky. Though we live far away in different lands we see the same moon among the same stars. The moon among the stars in the world sky are etched with the same light in all our hearts. We climb the same mountain on different paths to meet each other by the cave of dreams. We sail the same ocean in different boats to meet each other on the shore of hope. The oceans send the rain up to the clouds and the mountains send the rain to the ocean. Some people spend their lives in the same house and know everybody in the same town. Some people spend their lives walking new roads and meet new people in a thousand towns. I lived in fifty homes in twenty-five towns on hundreds of roads sea to shining sea. The horse in the field runs free with the wind so I explore from Scythia to Scotland. The four-wheeled wagon rolls in sun and rain so I drive from Virginia to Oregon. I pave the long road of my journey west with the bones my ancestors leave behind. We will unify all Europe and Russia in one peaceful state we name Gothinia. From the ruins of fallen America we will build our free country Zarathia. We will unite the peoples of our tribes in the bounteous state of Anglonesia. The ravens gather in the apple tree and teach us civil rights through liberty. The orioles assemble in the orange tree and teach us to deal fair justice for all. We gather in moonlight round the World Tree to share stories about our quest for truth. We live in different countries on one globe but tell one story of romantic love. We worship different gods with discrete souls who all emanate from the same God Mind. Every plant and animal on this Earth springs from the same First Mother of the sea.
Justice For The World
Justice For The World © Surazeus 2025 03 07 Grasping string of sorrow that holds his kite, Wulfred escapes as far as he can go from crowded city run by gangs of thieves to sit on mountain of the holy light and wonder at soft song of glowing snow in secret meadow where the raven grieves. They hung him upside down from the oak tree, mocked him while beating his father to death, then left him with broken arm by locked gate, so he declares his mission to live free while learning martial arts with heated breath to fight with the wand forged by honest fate. While ten years pass in spinning of the world, as the thief king takes over the whole town to exploit working people for his gain, Wulfred attains role of the palace herald so he returns with goal to take his crown and cleanse his hometown of the grifter stain. Robed as herald sent from the palace court, Wulfred strides in castle of the thief king who fails to recognize the boy he beat when he welcomes herald of the great fort, feasting on steak while his enslaved girls sing, then demands the envoy kneel at his feet. Standing tall before thief king on gold throne, Wulfred unrolls scroll from the palace lord. "Great King Carolus who rules this vast land, declares that Donald the thief should atone for foul crimes he commits with bloody sword, so he should repent for deeds of his hand." Screaming in rage at threat to his cruel reign, Donald commands guards to arrest the herald and chop off his head to protect the state, but Wulfred evades hands grasping in vain, wields energy of justice for the world, then strikes to punish him with well-earned fate. Forcing the greedy thief off throne of power, Wulfred arrests his state-destroying reign to imprison him in cell of his rage, breaking his oppression of the state tower so people benefit from their own gain since the thief is confined in lawful cage. Though the people proclaim him their new king, Wulfred manages electoral campaign, crowns as magistrate the person they choose to execute laws programmed by the Thing, then lives in garden on the river plain where he raises children with his wise Muse.
Thursday, March 6, 2025
Alligators Of New Faith
Alligators Of New Faith © Surazeus 2025 03 06 When the world as we know it falls apart in global transformation of the truth, we gather to discuss doctrine of rain to revive spirit of justice through faith that variegated nations of the Earth can thrive in harmony of honest peace. Since olive-tree warbler of Eden sings with baritone acceptance of contempt, we translate harsh howl of aggressive faith into solemn hymns of mutual respect, and give each other bread and wine to feast before the falling of the holy bomb. The silver moon I think is mine alone shines with compassion on the mountain vale where herd of elusive soala drink at pool of faces hidden by gold clouds, while Yan Po Nagar tends bright mango trees that sprout from gold eyes of the Rainbow Rong. The mute sun that always watches us live sets gold over the Mississippi River with indifferent calm of slow passing time that continues though empires of the world crumble into disarray of greed, so I photograph serene gleam of water. Our mothers compose our bodies from dust of atoms still sparkling from the First Flash, and our fathers guide us on road of life so our brains emanate our conscious souls that fashion world views from our memories, and then we crumble into soul-less dust. Brow furrowed in contemplation of fate, Sarah curls on white-oak chair by the wall while pale fingers fiddle with braided hair, then tells ghost of light in the window pane how she is concerned with ache of her heart for all innocent children killed in wars. The hero who defends democracy jumps off the Tallahassee Bridge at dawn and swims with alligators of new faith to wrestle blind demon of fiscal greed who pilfers treasure from Temple of Saturn till David hurls spear of judicial hope. Though global puzzle of our new world order is still scattered in martial disarray, the social architect with clever eyes envisions complex structure for world state that combines cultural systems of desire in vigorous United Nations of Earth.
Machine Of The Truth
Machine Of The Truth © Surazeus 2025 03 06 The glass vase of lilacs slides off the table and floats over the city of glass towers to map traffic patterns of cars that flow up tangled roots of the lonely elm tree where young girl in the flower dress plays flute to explain why the world will never end. Though people gather at the theater in late cool evening of blue shadowed breeze, the girl who plays the melancholy flute scatters torn fragments of famous portraits that tumble as leaves across the sidewalk till children assemble them in new myths. When the bald man aims the gun at her face she preaches to the choir of clueless angels that the past has to be destroyed again so we can rebuild machine of the truth on shattered ruins of outdated faith from weird drawings based on the human scale. Death overshadows all our noble plans to found world civilization on fair laws copied from clay tablets of ancient proverbs that we found broken in ruins of history which analyze ambiguous events smeared on the arbitrary wall of hope. Night swallows incompleteness of respect with sentimental value of despair contrived by parallel concepts of wealth detailed by special keys of privilege which factors satire of contemptuous men who sell their mothers as slaves to the gain. Dazed by pride of unattainable love, victims of indifferent fortune discard sacred words they keep hidden in their hearts that rot from arrogance of racial grift, abandoned in doorways of homeless hope from fluorescent glare of religious faith. Apprised of proverbs from authentic grief through improbable estate of false hope, we choose the impossible dream to buy, with concurrent clues of magnified rage, new world view that excludes everyone else except the thief still unidentified. In light of all this jumbled reasoning, no wonder soul of our country for sale has gone mad with naive surprise to see Goliath re-elected as president who appoints Samson to smash all our temples till David comes with machine of the truth.
Hear The Secret Truth
Hear The Secret Truth © Surazeus 2025 03 06 One day Sarah stops singing to the sky but the sky can still hear voice of her heart, so the sky keeps reflecting secret thoughts she tries to hide from other human beings who capture song birds in cages of gold so only they can hear the secret truth. One day Sarah stands up in church and turns to stare at hundreds of faces that glow with faith that they will live after they die, and shouts at them that they are all robots, but they cannot hear the words that she speaks, so she walks outside on the sunlit lawn. One day Sarah hears the tree in the yard tell her that she is the last fallen angel, but she refuses to believe that lie, so she applies to jobs at grocery stores where she wants to arrange boxes on shelves to ensure everyone has food to eat. One day Sarah decides airplanes are gods described in ancient myths of Greece and Rome, so she waves to Jupiter and Athena while folding cardboard boxes in the alley where seven wild cats from the river woods eat the food she pours in bowls every day. One day Sarah becomes a warrior queen when Tom finds her working in the stock room, grabs her hips, and tries to yank her pants down, so she kicks wildly to escape his grasp and calls him rapist in the crowded store then quits her job and runs out in the rain. One day Sarah hears faceless angels sing while she browses in the town library so she applies for the job stocking books, then smiles with joy as she glides down the aisles to place each book in order of its theme because they are doorways to other worlds. One day Sarah sits in the coffee shop, crowded with hipsters plotting revolution, where she writes words with the plastic ink pen along blue lines in the spiral notebook for fantasy novel about young girl who discovers she has Athena Power. One day Sarah stands before the large crowd gathered in the library where she works, and reads from her published fantasy novel about the average American girl who saves the country from evil rich men so everybody lives through liberty.
Wednesday, March 5, 2025
Sitcom Of Charming Laughs
Sitcom Of Charming Laughs © Surazeus 2025 03 05 Puttering around her house each afternoon in plain white dress she wears to do housework, Shemaiah carols absent-mindedly. "This time next year I might almost be dead so I swirl outward from my aching head to give you treasure I hide in my heart." Afternoon breeze flutters curtains of fate that shift beams of sunlight on the cracked plate where two oranges glow with eerie desire. "I feel long road of time unspool my heart through undulating thread from my star chart that leaves me stranded on island of dread." When her daughter arrives home from high school she smiles and watches her climb shadowed stairs then disappear through door of silent hope. "My life is no sitcom of charming laughs, except for journey of lonely giraffes that gather in starlight around the pool." The rumbling garbage truck that creaks and beeps stops under the oak where the goldfinch cheeps, and swallows sorrows she has thrown away. "Sometimes I feel I am the only one who asks the angels why nobody cares, though I will always keep the Golden Rule." The man who stalked her in college appears from flickering shadow of long willow leaves, and stands on the path halfway to her house. "My happiness escapes cage of my heart to fly toward Heaven on wings of desire where I want to join the angelic choir." Hefting the baseball bat in her right hand, she slams open the door of confidence and strides toward the man with the bitter gun. "I have the right to live in liberty, secure in safety of my private home, so kill me and die in prison alone." The gun turns out to be the camera he stole from her apartment years before, which he returns now with apology. "These photos I took of the mountain lake where I went hiking to find peace of God reveal sad naivety of my youth." Adjusting focus of the camera, Shemaiah photos goldfinch in the oak that flutters wings of carefree purity. "This time next year I may not be alive, so I passionately live this hour of faith, capturing beauty of this world I love."
Ground We Dwell Upon
Ground We Dwell Upon © Surazeus 2025 03 05 I hear no angels call from sunken ships that went down in sudden erratic storms thousands of years ago in wine-dark seas, so I bring their statues back up to land where they stand in museums of soft light and wear stone masks of divine dignity. I feel my laughter flow in roots of trees to transform sorrow from excited dust as time converts rain to new languages spoken by young tribes wandering the Earth without knowing they will stop by the lake and build the first city to hide despair. Tall oak tree alone in the open field asks me to bring her fresh mushrooms and eggs, so I climb the mountain of singing stones to measure the distance from birth to death where children leap from bushes in surprise and dance around me as they wave their arms. Happy in this timeless place of sad trees that cover me with leaves of tender hope, I watch empires of power rise and fall along flowing rivers ten thousand years while I write names of their glorious kings on dry brown leaves that crumble in the wind. Small frozen sun calls me across the field where gold wheat stalks whisper alluring lies, so I walk alone beyond garden walls where weeping angels keep watch at midnight to protect their families from hungry thieves who steal everything we make with our hands. While the old woman in the long black dress who stands on rocky cliff above the sea plays heart-enchanting music of starlight on vibrating strings of the violin, millions of people are born from our eyes who walk together on the bridge of lies. When divine kings in grand tombs are exhumed we find their flesh has withered into dust and their bones are fragile as angel wings, but the crowns with jewels they wore with pride still gleam with immortal glory of power, though we have forgotten their names and deeds. I search for angels in the apple tree and find young children wild with joy for life, so I play songs with lyre of Mercury to sing about great heroes of the past whose visions shape how we perceive the world for their minds are the ground we dwell upon.
Where We All Belong
Where We All Belong © Surazeus 2025 03 05 Attempting to climb high Ladder of Light to find eternity within the flower, I fall back into reality state where I seek spiritual beauty of faith in physical forms that molecules take as our bodies manifest the star wraith. Awake in dreamtime my brain conjures bright as seer of illusions in ivory tower, I perform my sentient Zephyrian role of mapping divine rhythm of the mind that mistakes my private plan for the goal my secret concept of God has designed. The golden-eyed toad tells me I am right, as I dance with Maenads in the spring shower, this present is not inevitable, though I claim reward for accomplishments unseen in abyss less relatable than world stage empty of astonishments. Leaping from my body in psychic flight to find my true love in protective bower, I realize I am but one tiny drop of spiritual energy in the world sea, so I work hard to tend the yearly crop which I guard as Loaf-Ward with the door key. The tree outside my window calls my name, so I sail vast ocean in fragile boat to found New Heaven in America as paradise I build with bleeding hands where I learn to plant corn from Onatah who weeps at foul state of her pristine lands. Illustrious wisdom of our social game, encased in hill castle with guardian moat, motivates my quest to unite the world in global community of just laws designed by insight of the cosmic herald to base justice on our Liberty Cause. Yet Utopian projects all fail the same, so I will do nothing but sulk or gloat, allowing humans to destroy themselves as they succumb to greed of tyranny instead of fighting ghosts with honest elves to preserve our global democracy. Ever evading thirsty vampire Fame to maintain system where we all can vote, I fly forward into the gathering storm on wings of laughter for transcendent song to wake divine spirit in mortal form which conjures nation where we all belong.
Tuesday, March 4, 2025
Divine Darkness Of Faith
Divine Darkness Of Faith © Surazeus 2025 03 04 My heart will scry lost treasure map of faith that reveals where the Bluebird hides my tongue while I sleep among Arizona pines because the children of my pulsing cells are all the spiders crawling on the sand who rejoice in cool sprinkling rain of spring. Though I walk alone on signless desert road far from my home in rain-wet Oregon, I feel my heart of eager raven wings woven into spider web of the land, connected to millions of beating hearts, so we all feel each other in our dreams. Shocked by prophecy of the pouting Sphinx that predicts fall of the clay-footed king, I watch Coyote skitter across the road with casual attitude of the lost fool while pushing cart of apples in the suburbs where children ask if I have popsicles. Pausing by abandoned gas station store, where homeless people now gather and drink, I ask the Singing Turtle if she knows why the flaming meteor never hits Earth, and she explains that time circles around so we repeat our duties every day. Road runner races down the desert road through tunnel painted over sandstone wall that opens portal to alternate Earth where fairies dance in ring of diamond stones, but Coyote smacks at the solid wall to symbolize my search for Paradise. Digging water well in heart of the world to clear room so we flourish in the land, I signify its presence with the name Rehoboth as symbol for Flow of Life that waters fields of barley with new hope which shimmer bright on our ancestral plane. Entwined with psychic souls we never meet, we walk as our own shadows to retrieve treasured memories hidden in hollow oaks with eyes of quartz that perceive secret love heavy with false guilt of the rainless moon moistened by silver kiss of subtle rain. Still on threshold of ever-moving home, that radiates with divine darkness of faith, we share our weirdest secrets without speech by how we hold each other in moonlight, and give each other names that bind our hearts with flashing ring of sacred molecules.
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