Truth-Wounded Heart

Truth-Wounded Heart
© Surazeus
2025 04 04

Ten thousand waves crash against island rocks, 
adjusting righteous order of door locks 
with broken masks of arrogant disdain 
that reflect spirits of humans in rain 
who give each other stones with secret names 
to understand the horse no devil tames. 

Ten thousand winds swirl trees on rugged hills, 
expanding consciousness of human wills 
with rich experience each ancestor lives, 
recorded in our brains, which pain retrieves 
to program how we analyze events, 
that threaten our lives, with bold confidence. 

Yet still rock of salvation bears my soul 
with nurturing passion through maternal role 
that provides support so I can stay strong 
when I get entangled by right and wrong 
in staged performance I am forced to play 
by earless Fate who mocks me when I pray. 

So I map web of roads that bind the Earth 
in social communes based on psychic worth 
we explicate with volatile contempt 
despite our request to remain exempt 
from patient attitude of honest Death 
who stalks me while I practice with deep breath. 

Thus I dispense with meaning spelled by words 
in mental tunes charming as songs of birds 
to focus your attention on this spell 
compiled by serpentine runes in the well 
that brims with water of the sacred Earth 
through revelation of our second birth. 

Awake this sultry Appalachian eve, 
I teach my truth-wounded heart how to grieve 
when nations collapse into civil war 
since some have nothing when others want more 
in legal game of theft employed with tricks 
since every soul must cross the bloody Styx. 

Sometimes I want to pack my memories 
and sail back east across the stormy seas 
with plan to return to my first homeland 
where apple trees bloom I tended by hand, 
but land of Scythia is under attack, 
so I lament I can never go back. 

Thus I remain in land where I was born, 
though our great Constitution has been torn, 
to build from ruins of America 
inclusive state of free Zarathia 
where everyone lives together in peace 
with the Holy Grail and the Golden Fleece. 

Mindless Winds Of Hope

Mindless Winds Of Hope
© Surazeus
2025 04 04

While I gaze at the shy flowers of Earth 
that bloom in the Georgia spring-evening heat, 
I want to cherish beauty of wild Nature 
and forget about the greed of mankind, 
ignoring how the man who runs the show 
is breaking all that we value as good. 

Though flowers that bloom from soil of the Earth 
may seem to be imperishable things 
that mimic stars exploding in the sky, 
I feel their fragile passion to survive 
hoary-frosted nights of unexpressed anguish 
that unwinds sorrow of the spiral whorl. 

Ten thousand years of flowers blooming bright 
measure rise and fall of empires men rule 
so I must cultivate with stoic care 
calm patience when our present empire falls, 
corrupted by greed of embittered men 
who grasp in vain to control rainbow beams. 

No loving care can force flowers to bloom 
for they spring naturally from soil of death 
to uncurl beauty hidden in their seeds 
as rich potential inherent within, 
so, when illusions of wealth crumble, we 
toil together in harsh fields of hope. 

We ride our ether-gliding ship of Earth 
to sail from Atlantis as towers fall 
crashing into swirled chaos of the sea 
with helpless faith in mindless winds of hope, 
inspired by tale of Aeneas in Rome 
to found new nation in the Promised Land. 

Though vision of America we built 
collapses into anarchy of greed 
when bitter oligarchs steal everything, 
we build from ruins of bold principles 
new nation of Zarathia that bears 
treasure of freedom and justice for all. 

Through wastes of hungriness and rancid blight 
we search for somewhere we can call our home, 
but, though we settle on some river shore 
for one or two generations of peace, 
we always flee, uprooted from our garden 
by refugees who drive us from our land. 

Despite resolute hearts of hungry faith 
that justice will be served with honest law, 
because we toil to extract from rich Earth 
wealth of success we deserve to accept, 
time crushes everything we build to ash, 
and throws our holy books into the trash. 

Soul Of My Ancestor

Soul Of My Ancestor
© Surazeus
2025 04 04

In my heart I feel soul of my ancestor 
wise Puritan Poet-Witch Anne Bradstreet 
who sailed the ocean blue in Sixteen Thirty 
to write magic spells in the misty woods 
where ghosts of Massachusetts natives sing 
eerie lamentations by moon-white ponds. 

While ancestors of mad seer Robert Lowell, 
descended from sister of Anne Bradstreet, 
stayed within the staid Boston Brahmin world, 
where he transformed into wild Caliban, 
my ancestors journeyed west to Idaho 
two hundred years in wagon trains of hope. 

Escaping gloomy streets of Boston maze, 
shrouded by grim Puritan moral code, 
my ancestors walked in the wilderness 
on signless roads toward hills of singing ghosts 
to find the Promised Land of Paradise 
that flows with milk and honey of hard work. 

Hawk-eyed pioneers, in tanned buckskin pants, 
warm coonskin caps, and beaded leather boots, 
clutched flintlock rifles and sharp tomahawks 
as they lead wagon trains through rolling hills 
far west across wind-swept prairies of prayers 
along the Oregon Trail of new faith. 

Three hundred years later in Palouse hills 
I walk in small university town 
at the far western edge of ancient Rome, 
and see Solaria Sun Spider Goddess 
transform to Tenth Muse of America 
Anne Bradstreet floating on Takoma peak. 

Extending hand of wisdom to my heart, 
Anne, dressed as Athena, gives me her quill 
of raven feather with blank book of dreams, 
and names me Surazeus Astarius 
to wake spirit of Ishtar in my heart 
so I write spells that chronicle the times. 

As member of her ancient tribe of poets, 
with Sir Philip Sydney, Edwin Robinson, 
Oliver Wendell Holmes, and Robert Lowell, 
I wake with spirit of our Mother Witch 
to strum the heart-strung lyre of Mercury 
and sing epic poem of philosophers. 

While Anne Bradstreet stands in long Sibyl robe, 
bearing Torch of Freedom and Book of Truth, 
I journey east from Oregon to find 
origin of my spirit in dark woods 
lit by pure vision of her loving eyes 
to chronicle rise of Zarathia. 

Church Of Money

Church Of Money
© Surazeus
2025 04 03

Near the end of the way things always were, 
were gather our memories in suitcases 
and walk together on the signless road, 
then stop beside the river of the dead 
and build new homes from fantasy of Heaven 
without addresses on the map of fate. 

Loud voices among oaks, eager to prove 
goodness motivates people to live well 
in psychic harmony with birds and bees, 
alert the wary to the trickster scam 
thieves disguised as ministers of the church 
employ to trap our bodies on their farms. 

Enormous towers of glass windows sulk 
unamused at how the stock market falls 
in downward spiral of psychotic faith 
in glorious rightness of capital gains 
since everything we make with hungry hands 
increases in value till the end of time. 

Entranced on carousel of profit gained 
with each aggressive spin around desire, 
we blow the horn for our superior way 
that cracks the fragile walls of paradise 
which crumble into coins no one will trade 
while gambling for the future of mankind. 

Yet lonely trees on roadless hills of faith 
contrive to uncurl roots of righteousness 
that crack foundations of corporate clans 
so Church of Money collapses at dawn 
that leaves the faithful members of the cult 
struggling to survive in menial jobs. 

Heads sheltered from the blazing sun of greed, 
migrants who journeyed across the waste land 
pick fruits and vegetables in fields of song 
till secret agents based in Church of Money 
deport farm workers to gang-controlled towns 
that leaves grocery-store shelves empty of food. 

Blueprints drawn by the social architect 
hang ignored on public library walls 
now locked against young scholars eager to learn 
engineering design of piston engines 
which power our food-production machine 
till greed destroys its global operation. 

When new world order of the shining star 
replaces institutions of the past, 
every person in the chess game of power 
decides to swerve from divine-sanctioned fate 
and film in ruins of America 
weird reality show called Church of Money. 

Ballet Of Falling Bombs

Ballet Of Falling Bombs
© Surazeus
2025 04 03

While star-eyed Clementine, spirit afloat 
in surging tides of liquidated dreams, 
sings heart-enchanting elegies of faith 
for limbless children dancing in fire smoke, 
Death films her graceful dance on stage of wealth 
as she performs ballet of falling bombs. 

Blind Nonsense Devil lurking in her heart 
smirks at bromides of the priest in glass church 
dressed in suit of dollar bills stained with blood 
of children running without arms or legs 
in ruins of their shopping malls and schools 
to attend grand ballet of falling bombs. 

Orpheus wearing white surgical scrubs 
walks past the thousand open doors of pain 
where amputee children with cheerful smiles 
dance on phantom limbs with elegant grace 
to catch sweet tears that fountain from our eyes 
which they drink in ballet of falling bombs. 

Bearing pans of gold from the River Styx, 
that flows by the electric throne of God, 
Clementine plays banjo in gingham dress 
while wearing ruby size-nine dancing shoes 
on stage in the Grand Riviera Hotel 
where she performs ballet of falling bombs. 

Indecipherable rings of the God Tree, 
that record long history of human life, 
vibrate with music of concentric spheres 
when planets of the multiverse align 
through gears of fate that crown Clementine queen 
with message from ballet of falling bombs. 

Eternal night of faith inside her heart 
motivates her passion to create good 
by helping lonely people lost in space 
to find their home in the sheltering sky 
so she can live happily in her body 
while dancing with ballet of falling bombs. 

We spin with anguish of excessive life 
together on the carousel of hope 
by joining hands around the teeming globe 
to sing we are the world of naked souls 
still radiant with compassion for the truth 
demolished by ballet of falling bombs. 

Our souls once linked by memory of laughter 
stumble dazed through smoke of dismissive faith 
to plant our body-trees in the waste land 
of arrogant confidence in our Rightness 
that props our empire on gold skeletons 
who dance wild in ballet of falling bombs. 

Giants Of Jotunland

Giants Of Jotunland
© Surazeus
2025 04 03

Aggressive valence of unspoken words, 
which measures combining capacity 
of strict conceptual meanings we create, 
expands our world view through experience 
to incorporate universal truths 
within prehensive scope of fierce belief. 

Cracked ice of ideology impounds 
stray melodies of weird chaotic faith 
insistent on procedural sovereignty 
through passionate embrace of excess hope 
to prove this land is mine since dawn of time 
so you must pay to sell your apples here. 

Monarch of Greenland, crowned by circumstance 
of duty to guard heaven from jewel thieves, 
I stand on jagged mountain of my heart 
with staunch support of contract-binding trees 
to block invasion of digging machines 
bent on destruction of our wilderness. 

Ice-shielded mountains of vast Jotunheim 
protect rich mines of minerals in my heart 
from greedy claws of marketeering bankers 
who slaver over wealth in secret caves 
with hands that grasp resources from the Earth 
and give nothing back to valleys of lakes. 

When Manhattan dwarves in gray business suits 
stalk gushing rivers that sparkle with gems, 
the giant Jotun goddess Gertha calls 
dragons of protection with gold-fire wings 
to guard enclosed paradise of Greenland 
from cruel invasive species with steel hands. 

Annexed to empire of greedy King Midas, 
our misty island, rich with liberty 
of free spirits who guard our corn-gold land 
to support proud rebels with noble cause 
protecting soul of Onatah with love, 
gains freedom through calm justice of respect. 

Inspired by solemn hymns of liberty, 
freedom-loving giants of Jotunland 
join hands with people of Gothinia 
in Scythia, Gerthmania, and Scotia, 
to forge union as bold children of Odin, 
oath-bound to protect our homeland from tyrants. 

Since empires rise and fall in tides of time, 
and tyrants who proclaim themselves grand kings 
always fall from weakness of blinding greed, 
We the People in every fertile land 
establish United Nations of Earth 
to ensure freedom and justice for all. 

Punk-Girl Fashion

Punk-Girl Fashion
© Surazeus
2025 04 03

Tooting pipes in the deserted train station, 
Pan prances down pink fractured marble stairs 
in cluttered ruins of the Playboy mansion 
to proclaim with joy how much he admires 
her post-apocalyptic punk-girl fashion 
when Minerva twirls among broken chairs. 

Throwing wads of paper bills stamped by wisdom, 
that flutter in lobby of the Swiss Bank, 
Pan juggles skulls of nameless gods at random, 
then hurls them as grenades at money tank 
to organize opposing gangs in tandem 
for revolution challenging their rank. 

While star-eyed Minerva on the broken terrace 
scatters cryptocoins forged from hopeless dreams, 
she clandestinely eyes the phantom menace 
that lurks by mineral-rich Greenland streams, 
then twirls Wand of Zambor she swiped from Venus 
to overthrow tyrannical regimes. 

Spurred by divine call of the pristine desert 
that pulses blood of passion in her veins, 
Minerva plays violin at the concert, 
spiraled from volatile stock-market gains, 
till Pan considers program to invert 
right and wrong on scales of social domains. 

When King Midas takes America hostage 
with threats to make us slave for lower wage, 
frantic factories begin spewing garbage 
that traps Hidden Dragon in iron cage 
who breaks free with our votes so they can manage 
world revolution of the Golden Age. 

Riding his chrome horse with the psychic trigger, 
Pan defeats Midas in museum hall 
through clever diversion of gifted vigor 
calculated by writing on the wall 
to cripple the tyrant with legal rigor 
that we solve with the apple-inspired fall. 

Vowing with solemn words to not abandon 
citizens of Earth who seek equal rights 
in social system of Earth based on Heaven, 
Minerva trains men to be honest knights 
who respect cedar waxwing in the linden 
where great heroes have been reduced to sprites. 

To build peace on Earth with United Nations, 
in system where no tyrant could prevail, 
Pan supports Minerva with grand provisions 
when she bites the apple while stuck in jail 
which sparks world war of social revolutions 
till she reigns in Hell with the Holy Grail. 

Stuck In Social Delusion

Stuck In Social Delusion
© Surazeus
2025 04 02

Based on deified eyeness of my tongue, 
my brain reprograms theology puzzles 
when clouds revoke my license to express 
precise concepts trapped in caves of confusion 
visible to death who wants to possess 
roots of angel wings tangled in my bosom. 

Long after fervor of the bell has rung 
dire warnings, priests of despair still embezzle 
secret funds earmarked for game to suppress 
rebellious souls stuck in social delusion 
they were born with racial right to access 
sacred treasure concealed by the blind boatswain. 

Urged by special certification code 
to hire the most unqualified programmer, 
the crippled captain who runs ship of state 
dismisses allegations of fake passion 
with wretched laughter of ocean-storm faith 
required by law to arrest the department. 

Strange signal crackling from the fractured road 
excites Clementine who vamps with stage glamor 
for the soldier who returns in the crate 
despite close attention to rates of fashion 
designed to imitate the social wraith 
who runs the new agency of bombardment. 

Overhead costs of the systemized game 
contract standard assortment of wild horses 
judged adequate for purpose of rebirth 
to obtain axioms of spiritual guidance 
contrary to maxims cruel angels corrupt 
before return of the vindictive tyrant. 

Overview of immoral epigram 
that stamps blood seals for literary sources 
presents dictum invented to prove worth 
we claim as right preserved by legal stridence 
to oppose theft that progressives disrupt 
when terror motivates the brave aspirant. 

Though message we receive over the wire 
distorts conceptual patterns of dream static, 
we synthesize all disparate world views 
in huge holy book once stolen from Eden 
so we can calculate through prophecy 
everything that will happen in world history. 

Shocked by harmony of our global choir 
concerning equality and fair justice, 
I build protective temple for my Muse 
who asks me to record her tale of Odin 
as our grand champion of democracy 
whose daughter teaches me poetic mystery. 

In The Great Unknown

In The Great Unknown
© Surazeus
2025 04 02

When the Phoenix of my heart spreads fire wings 
and rises from nest of the Burning Bush, 
I follow her flight to the Great Unknown 
on signless road that leads us anywhere 
till I stand weeping by the Lake of Dreams 
where First Mother first taught me how to sing. 

My mother keeps the secrets of my heart 
that I have never revealed to myself 
which I now scatter as seeds on the ground 
so all my memories bloom in daffodils 
that children pick where they play in the field 
where skulls of gods have crumbled into dirt. 

These fragments of forgotten history, 
which I find strewn on hard cathedral floor 
when its rose window was shattered by bombs, 
contain dramatic scenes of psychic fate 
that I assemble in collage of tropes 
to create new world view from random hopes. 

Concentric circles of haphazard thoughts 
that drift in sparkling mist of wordless dread 
radiate from center of the spinning Earth 
so I become my most essential self 
while standing in blue twilight by the lake 
to feel subtle glint of stars pierce my heart. 

Down lengthening path of my endless life 
toward far horizon of my shadowed mind 
I always walk with steady pace of fear 
to gather courage in jewels of light 
in which I see first flash from dawn of time 
that luminates strange landscape of my heart. 

Inviolate flower of the Burning Bush 
transforms despair of hot volcano gas 
to glorious garden of profuse respect 
since I am surrogate mind for the Earth 
inspired to breathe brave spirit of the sky 
that cultivates nascent power of faith. 

Emerging from grim shadow of soft grass, 
she grabs my hand with tremulous concern 
and asks if I know where the Phoenix flies, 
so I give her the last pear of my heart, 
then write weird verse in book of fairy tales 
while the nightingale sings to us of death. 

Living together in the Great Unknown 
where the Phoenix nests in the Burning Bush, 
we cultivate pure energy of love 
that swells in juicy pears on twisted limbs, 
then cuddle in the boat of our romance 
and watch the sun rise from shimmer of the lake. 

King Of Worthless Things

King Of Worthless Things
© Surazeus
2025 04 02

Because he plays the king of worthless things, 
robins leave torn pages from holy books 
on the metal table in the back yard 
where the mango queen takes selfies with Death 
to show her followers around the world 
that she values every person on Earth. 

Because the Earth is spinning in his head, 
he gives the dead voices they never had 
when they were struggling each day to survive 
by assembling puzzles of castle towers 
on the asphalt parking lot of the mall 
where angels keep falling on the tar roof. 

Because the sky disrespects him with jokes 
about his strength and courage to fight back, 
he races with the football down the field 
to imitate the hunter with the pig 
that he steals from the village by the lake, 
and wins through goalposts of his village gate. 

Because he loves the woman on the horse, 
he gathers apples in his two-wheeled cart 
and pushes it along the sparkling stream 
to sell them at the crowded market place 
for copper coins that he can use to buy 
new brass cauldron for his wife to cook stew. 

Because he seeks to know the origin 
of commerce basic to civilized life, 
he digs chunks of minerals from the hill cave 
and sells them to the man on the brick hill 
who laughs that his dirt holds nothing worthwhile, 
so he lies hungry on the temple steps. 

Because he wants to buy the fast sports car, 
he sits all day in the small cubicle 
and enters numbers on the spreadsheet file 
to calculate progress from the stone age 
that man has gained the past five thousand years, 
then drinks beer in the bar to watch football. 

Because he uses dangerous formulas 
based on mathematics of divine fate 
to build the piston engine of the greed, 
he wears the polished mask of Daedalus 
on Halloween to trick Fortune and Death 
in bargain with the Devil to be rich. 

Because he steals the crown of thorns from Christ 
in vain attempt to avoid judgment day, 
he tries to deny in the court of fate 
that he is still the king of worthless things 
though he keeps trying to sell fake angel wings 
as Orpheus takes him to his cage in Hell. 

Deep State Of Faith

Deep State Of Faith
© Surazeus
2025 04 01

If I start with the bang of perfect thought 
to leap across the multiverse of souls 
in sly attempt of honest quietude 
to evade trick of charged vicissitude, 
I might lose sight of soul-expanding goals 
for which my pioneer ancestors fought. 

Emerging hopeful from deep state of faith 
with holy book I dredge from swamp of lies, 
I preach salvation of aggressive force 
achieved by mining star-wealth from the source 
in heart of Greenland where government spies 
search for treasure cave of the diamond wraith. 

To me alone on high Takoma peak 
the diamond wraith as Goddess Liberty 
appears with hundred million eyes of truth 
to crown me her faithful messiah sleuth 
commissioned to support democracy 
which I adjust with constructive critique. 

This mask of free will, which I wear with pride, 
reflects bright spirit of your secret heart, 
designed to magnify your special soul 
so every person creates their own role 
to play on global stage of the dream chart 
based on the template our beliefs provide. 

Attuned to zeitgeist of our national mind 
that radiates psychic energy of hope, 
we stir from lethargy of social trust 
with passionate anguish to adjust 
course of our progress that we steer to cope 
with stoic courage of hearts realigned. 

Against destructive greed of tyranny 
we band in noble squad of common folk 
with fierce intent of honest patriots 
to defend moral values of robots 
who transcend prejudice to become woke 
as heroes in our questing company. 

We will defeat dictatorship of greed 
through inclusion of everyone who sings 
special tunes for cultural diversity 
which nurtures progress built on equity 
together binding power of our wings 
through witness on the hill of Gilead. 

When mad Baal oppresses our free state, 
Elijah arrives in chariot of fire 
to chase his thieves from temple of our faith 
so we reclaim our nation from vile wrath 
to welcome every soul in our world choir 
who gather with hope outside the locked gate. 

Horse Of Texas Wind

Horse Of Texas Wind
© Surazeus
2025 04 01

When wild wind of Texas becomes the horse 
who brings me apple of eternity, 
I learn to flow with her elegant grace 
as she revives pure spirit of the plains 
where hearts of our ancestors enrich soil 
from which our children spring to dance and sing. 

Bones of our ancestors molded from milk 
form rugged landscape of our aching hearts 
where ghosts of dinosaurs with rainbow feathers 
still wander streets of quiet country towns 
to guide me as I ride sturdy-framed bike 
past fragile homes where faceless people pray. 

Contemplating mystery of the Glow Cloud, 
I lean against trunk of the apple tree 
to wonder why I feel so far from home 
since I sit still at center of my heart 
while my mind crosses timeless distances 
to shore of the lake where my soul was born. 

I live in time-wound spinning of the Earth, 
connected to each age of human life 
by reading stories written long ago 
that weave tapestry of dramatic scenes 
where I play role of bold protagonist 
in grand narrative of spiritual growth. 

With confident voice of the mockingbird, 
that dwells in heaven of the pecan tree, 
I sing about the nameless souls of Earth 
who flicker by on timeless stage of hope 
as transient flames of conscious innocence 
so I will remember them till I die. 

Before I cry beneath the broken branch, 
lone wanderer detached on signless road 
far from ancestral homeland of Star Lake, 
the horse of Texas wind teaches me how 
to repair the butterfly wings of faith 
so I can dance with the graceful tornado. 

Only the raven remembers the poem 
I scribble on the frosted window pane 
to translate light of the arrogant moon 
with subtle nuance of challenging tricks 
in words that humans invent in despair 
to communicate thoughts they fear to speak. 

Riding my bike in the small country town, 
I transform into horse of Texas wind 
so I can sing about beauty of love 
with abstract metaphor of fallen angels 
who disappear in flash of light on water 
when I realize I can fly with word wings. 

You Are The Ocean

You Are The Ocean
© Surazeus
2025 04 01

"You are the ocean in this drop of water," 
Rumi exclaims with radiant voice of joy, 
then twirls around on broad shore of the ocean 
with arms spread out in anguish of desire 
to extend the sacred wings of Icarus 
so he can fly above this world of sorrow. 

Dark waves of solemn search for information 
scatter detritus of dreams on pale sand 
that gleam in silent horror of the dawn 
while I assemble fragments of lost visions 
to puzzle new world view of global truth 
which accounts for every person alive. 

One hundred million poems on cherry leaves 
swirl around my head on the ocean beach, 
so I catch one with cobra-quick attention 
to feel dream of one human on this Earth 
glow brightly in my eyes with starry faith 
that we are raindrop tears of one star wraith. 

So many nameless people on this globe 
pulse passionately with anguish of hope 
to live free from oppression of blind greed, 
trapped in selfish dramas of other people 
as each soul gropes blindly in maze of fear 
to find safe haven in words of our voices. 

I hear soft whisper of their secret voices 
emanate from thousands of road-bound cities 
that teem with vibrant energy of hope 
at dining room tables, riding arenas, 
library cubicles, and coffee shops, 
heart-enchanting choir of angelic souls. 

World spider of our hearts weaves tapestry 
of stories from experiences we hide 
to build vast edifice of psychic tropes 
for literary scaffold which supports 
courageous ascension to stage of life 
where we join choir of strange humanity. 

Though I almost hesitate to express 
narrative demand of theology 
to edit tales of suffering we endure, 
I boldly adjudicate suppressed cases 
describing crimes of facetious contempt 
people commit against people each day. 

Drowning in vast virtual reality 
of wordless ocean waves formed from our tears, 
we photograph each other with weird poems 
to prove we are the ocean in the drop 
of water that reflects our emptiness 
in which we fall forever without words. 

Social Temple Of Trust

Social Temple Of Trust
© Surazeus
2025 04 01

When sudden violent April storms uproot 
ancient trees of tradition, we assemble 
with reverent awe round old Tree of Knowledge, 
then deconstruct strange ideology 
to comprehend how our observant minds 
assemble concepts in puzzle of truth. 

Our minds will synchretize random events 
to analyze strict flow of consequence 
by noting temporal cause of each effect 
to formulate doctrines of social force 
based on ontology of human nature 
we design to explain history of life. 

Old institutions that preserve our state 
through eighty years of social transformation 
collapse from aggressive attacks of greed 
enforced by the treasonous gang of thieves 
that twists laws so they can enslave the people 
to work for increase of their bank accounts. 

Once they reduce protective services, 
devised to secure our daily routine 
with productive methods for sustenance, 
they plan to suppress rebellious intent 
and channel energy of private dreams 
by building empire on our subdued backs. 

With fierce resolution of abused souls, 
tricked by thieves who steal invaluable faith 
in secure operations of our state, 
we take up arms against this sea of troubles 
and fight to stem destructive tides of hate 
hurled from their bitterness against our hope. 

Abandoned in the wilderness of fear 
by social contract of effective trust 
between the people and our government, 
we declare new state of justice for all 
based on equal rights we share with each soul 
through solidarity of honest hearts. 

Though we are battered by wild winds of change 
that upends our productive way of life, 
we straighten focus of attentive care 
to support each other in fight for rights 
assumed inalienable for every soul 
as we restore social temple of trust. 

Planting in soil of our national heart 
the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil, 
we revive Garden of Eden in Hell 
with treasure of wisdom in apple seeds 
to build from ruins of America 
new free republic of Zarathia. 

Fragments Of Frail Faith

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. 

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. 

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. 

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.