Wild Carmanian Waste

Wild Carmanian Waste
© Surazeus
2026 08 26

Mother of this great globe that teems with life, 
whose psychic energy through human brains 
strives to wake mortal souls with cautious sight 
of faith in what our minds perceive, reveal 
pure essence of atoms in frames of matter 
so I feel your divine mind in my soul. 

Since obstinate questionings about life, 
delivered by the faceless ghost of earnest hope 
embodied by the laughing messenger, 
drive me beyond walls of religious creeds, 
I render brave mission to comprehend 
engine that motivates my quest for truth. 

Twilight phantasms glowing in my dreams 
spark me to fine-tune taut lyre of my heart 
so breath of our First Mother plays quick tune 
of wisdom across matrix of my brain, 
expressed as solemn hymn of honesty 
which charms no other heart on Earth but mine. 

Since charmed eddies of autumnal winds form 
mound of forgetful leaves over my skull, 
which sings wordless prophecies about death, 
I sing in solitude of wind-blown trees 
surreal fantasies through weird melodies 
which gleam as lamp that guides my earnest steps. 

Nurtured by solemn visions of soul growth 
at fountain of divine philosophy 
that radiates in ambient air from lush Earth, 
I seek strange truths in undiscovered lands 
where city mazes of steel-framed glass towers 
mushroom from meadows where my fathers farmed. 

Far from the tangled wilderness of hope, 
where my ancestors built havens of peace, 
I cradle secure sense of solitude 
while roaming streets of rainbow-chasing crowds 
among glass towers of commercial wealth 
constructed on ruins of ancient temples. 

No longer lost in wild Carmanian waste, 
where boat of my exploratory heart 
lies beached on shifting sands of certitude, 
I keep mute conference with my dream-hexed soul 
to translate spells of anguish blind ghosts howl 
so passing strangers stop to hear my song. 

That spectral soul as spirit of our times, 
whom I encounter at the desolate tomb 
of our cultural god, opens cyber wings, 
designed by Icarus, and teaches me 
secret of composing truth-riddled verse 
with Cassandra Code to guide the lost home. 

Mirrored Stillness Of The Soul

Mirrored Stillness Of The Soul
© Surazeus
2026 08 26

Despite the mirrored stillness of the soul 
that hides essential nature of my heart 
in sweet illusion of the mask I wear, 
my mind seethes with ambition to transcend 
physical limits of body and mind 
by weaving my memories in riddle verse. 

If bright coherence of the conscious soul 
still glows with integrated sense of self 
after functions of the body have ceased, 
as people are so desperate to believe, 
then why are they not all around us now 
whispering their dreams in words we can hear? 

Just as the frail flame on the candle wick 
puffs into delicate curls of mute smoke, 
so vibrant pulse of psychic energy 
will vanish into nothingness at death 
since chemical glow of the dreaming mind 
ceases to emanate clear consciousness. 

Just as water, shaped by shell of the bowl, 
disperses into incoherent swirls 
when whole frame is fractured into small shards, 
so intact process of the neural net 
will scatter into frazzled sparks of unthought, 
unable to preserve memories as dreams. 

This special feeling of my own uniqueness 
that binds chemical energy as me, 
conjured by ancestral memories of life 
programmed by genes to beam my sense of self, 
tricks me to think my conscious mind has lived 
before my birth as immortal God Self. 

My sense of self is programmed from my genes 
by conscious functions of attentive brains 
in my ancestors who created life 
through each new generation of my being 
that has evolved four hundred million years, 
so I feel as if I have lived forever. 

My brain is but one temporary node 
of consciousness awake in me this hour 
at this still point of my immortal genes 
designed by my ancestors to perceive 
process to generate bodies of children 
another hundred million years of life. 

I am coherent soul combining souls 
of all my ancestors in Sense of Self, 
so I would like to wake in my descendants, 
but they will form their own coherent souls 
in bodies animated by brave love 
bright in the mirrored stillness of the soul. 

Broken Things Of Time

Broken Things Of Time
© Surazeus
2026 08 26

If I wrap huge thoughts in small cage of wings 
to climb complex ladder of chorus tunes, 
I might feel swelling of my conscious mind 
with urgent passion to become the sky, 
but this body my ancestors designed 
constrains my quest to analyze the why. 

I never mourn the broken things of time 
since more than magic of conceptual faith 
preserves integrity of vibrant souls 
with web of words we weave from memories 
to maintain format of our worldview creed 
connecting us to every soul on Earth. 

My face glows in the window of my home 
as constellation formed from long-dead stars 
that flash awake in eyes of the moon owl 
who always watches me perform my life 
in vain attempt to earn credits of faith 
enough for admittance to paradise. 

Half-open doors of innocent desire 
lure me to restart play of my failed life 
with new beginning in some distant town 
where I seek treasure of the secret truth 
hidden in library of ancient tales 
recording lives of people without names. 

Though I try to carry joy in my hands, 
it flows away with liquid solvency 
while I sing quiet carol of my heart 
in silent darkness of the endless day 
where nameless people wander streets of fate 
by hiding pain of sorrow in their eyes. 

When Artemis returns from bright moon 
with seeds of trees she finds in every land, 
she asks me to plant them in town square parks 
where they bloom lush with soft angelic souls 
who whisper fairy tales as I pass by 
so I may understand why all souls die. 

When she explains long lineage of her grief 
in strange words her heart attempts to invent, 
she speaks with fondness of her bitter pain 
since she has danced with searing thorn of fear 
too many years to extricate it now, 
then grips my hand and sings in agony. 

I wonder, as I wander in oak woods 
with basket of persimmons on my arm,  
if my death will be silent as the lake 
that sings with shimmer of sad restless wind, 
but when they make short movie of my life 
I hope they show how much I ache to live. 

Become Ideal God Self

Become Ideal God Self
© Surazeus
2026 08 25

Midway through journey of my eager life 
I find myself in dark wood of the mind 
to study apparitions on black bough 
of faceless ghosts who ask me to record 
tale of unjust exile from paradise, 
so we lounge by white chickens and tell jokes. 

Life occurs when pattern key of the sperm 
unlocks material process of the egg, 
so immortal soul of genes unspools coils 
that assemble atoms in chemicals 
to weave neural network of the brain 
which animates organic frame of flesh. 

Consciousness glows when dream-recording brain 
configures program through analysis 
to gather and consume chemical mass 
that reconstructs the frame of glowing flesh 
which ambulates on landscape of the mind 
to generate new life before we die. 

Death happens when component atom nodes, 
that compose chemical organic beings, 
deconstruct material frame of the self 
so its conscious soul vanishes to sparks 
of atoms that dissipate in mute wind 
and swirl about in random gusts of fate. 

Some atoms stay stuck in clumps of mute rocks 
billions of years as the Earth spins in space, 
while others in dirt are sucked by tree roots, 
transformed to fruit that organic beings eat, 
so atoms that once formed my dreaming brain 
now become flashes in your dreaming brain. 

Every atom belonging to my soul 
belongs to every soul who ever lives, 
for we are clumps of atoms Earth creates 
so she can wake in visions of our brains 
as we strive to become ideal God Self 
which our ancestors make to guide our way. 

Thus when I hear your voice call out my name, 
that we invent to signify each self, 
I smile and open arms of welcoming 
to share my meal in shelter of my heart, 
then we tell each other tales about life 
so we expand scope of our conscious sense. 

Our parents show us how to walk the world 
and name each object and action we sense 
till they vanish into the wind we breathe, 
then we show our own children how to walk 
the world and name its essence in new song 
till we vanish into the wind they breathe. 

Abstract Space Of My Mind

Abstract Space Of My Mind
© Surazeus
2026 08 25

Alone in the abstract space of my mind, 
where reason flaps white raven wings of faith, 
I translate sorrow of ancestral dreams 
to heart-enchanting hymn of honest hope 
that shines with ancient wisdom of the sky 
as lamp that leads me to the Promised Land. 

By forging keys of reason from my pain 
I prove to fallen angels in the rain 
that I am abstract concept of my being, 
primed to ascend on breath-approving wing 
through fraught contingency of spinning space 
as pristine idol with strange divine face. 

Growth through epistemic humility 
provides oblique viewpoint for me to fly 
against the mindless tides of social change 
when I mold dreams of brave uncertainty 
to fit stylistic canon of our state 
while lounging in chalet of mortal fate. 

Through fragments of the humble anecdote, 
based firmly on allusive bricolage, 
my hand arranges puzzle shards of truth 
within aesthetic quadrant of our creed 
that weaves each unrelated reference 
in tensile matrix of our world-shared dreams. 

With programmatic openness of fear, 
concealed in symbols of unabstract art, 
I fashion gossip into ballad code 
to manufacture products from lake muck 
that soothes our wounded hearts with cute bromides 
developed by the archivist of dreams. 

Because we sail the spirit-coiling sea 
across infinite waves of starlit souls, 
we call to lighthouse keeper of our faith 
whose eyes illuminate surface of souls 
so we rise up from abyss of despair 
as swan-winged whales of innocent desire. 

While temporary glimmers of our souls 
pulse under thin skin of our mortal pride, 
great dragon of our hearts expands wild wings 
so we become the self we choose to play 
despite attempts of bitter Thought Police 
to interpret false meaning from our psalm. 

Absorbed by landscape of the mindless vale 
to flow with beauty of the sparkling stream, 
I feel strong tidal pull of social vibes 
reverse abstraction of my dreaming mind, 
so we hold hands and walk the river trail 
to chat about the earnest tones of birds. 

Liquid Eyes Of Faith

Liquid Eyes Of Faith
© Surazeus
2026 08 25

Since crystal network of my pulsing brain 
refracts strange dreams from strangers across town, 
I pluck taut strings of acoustic guitar 
and channel voice of our social zeitgeist 
in song of scrambled code to confiscate 
luminous phantom of national faith. 

High on the mountain ridge of fractured light, 
where Minerva was born from crystal brain 
of my desire to understand the world, 
I see blind ghost of Medusa appear 
in flurry of swan wings that scatters flakes 
of mirror-eyed snow in swirls of weird words. 

I want to think I understand this world, 
having assembled my ancestral dreams 
in coherent world view based on photographs 
arranged at random in forgotten books, 
so I ask the twin sisters of lost time 
if they can adjust the clock of my brain. 

Minerva gives me boots of dragon skin 
that protect my feet from sharp jagged rocks 
when I climb the mountain of broken idols 
to find the Holy Virgin of the Sea 
in huge cave where shadows of words distort 
how well my eyes perceive what is not real. 

Medusa gives me cape of brown-bear fur 
that comforts me against the searing blast 
of laughter from the nuclear bomb of fear 
when I chase butterfly of happiness 
through the corn field to the white country church 
where robots sing hymns to the telephone. 

On top the heart-shaped stone of solitude 
small statue of Minerva, forged with gold 
from crown of the last king cast from his throne, 
transforms into the woman with star eyes 
who gives me lyre of Mercury and winks, 
then goes to work as the hospital nurse. 

Inviting me to come and meditate 
with her on Mount Zion by the dream well, 
Medusa gives me liquid eyes of faith 
so I can see true essence of the mind 
which emanates from every human soul 
till I go blind from passion of the heart. 

Retracing path of life I never took, 
that winds through weird worlds of my multiverse, 
I find my soulmate on first world I left, 
still waiting for me at the kitchen table 
where she gives me meal that she cooked to eat, 
so we talk about the way water flows. 

Great River Of His Tribe

Great River Of His Tribe
© Surazeus
2026 08 24

Boots crunch on mucky gravel of her heart 
as Minnie lurks along the barbed-wire fence, 
crawls low under loose wire in cold moonlight, 
nauseous at pungent scent of oiled mushrooms, 
then scoots across open field past searchlights 
to huddle near the secret facility. 

Because our globe, as third rock from the sun, 
measured at one astronomical unit 
in the formula called Titus-Bode Law 
that predicts sequential spacing of planets, 
orbits just close enough to nurture life, 
billions of planets also teem with life. 

Slowly opening the metal door left unlocked, 
Minnie proceeds with caution in the dark, 
but stops at sight of enormous glass sphere 
that shimmers green and orange with pulsing lights, 
astonished with delight to see at last 
starship that came from some far distant world. 

Start with number zero, followed by three, 
then double each subsequent number, six, 
twelve, twenty-four, forty-eight, ninety-six, 
then add four to each number in the sequence, 
then divide each result by ten, which notes 
position of each planet from the sun. 

Strange eerie yellow glow lights up the room 
so Minnie stares astonished at the sight 
of human bodies in suits and white coats 
scattered from terrible carnage of death, 
but gasps when she sees the alien creature 
that seems half-cat, half-lizard with swan wings. 

Cradling wounded Seraph in tender arms, 
Minnie helps him drink water from the bottle, 
then gazes in his gold serpentine eyes 
and dreams whole progress of his earnest life, 
gliding along rivers, learning to sing, 
and exploring worlds as ship archivist. 

Bearing him inside his crystal starship, 
she follows instructions he telepaths 
to pilot sphere of pulsing glass in space, 
surfing through undulating beams of light 
to his home planet, he names Ranika, 
where his family welcomes him safely home. 

Holding his waist tight with laughter of awe, 
Minnie gasps when he soars into the sky 
and glides along great river of his tribe, 
named Saramatha for his great-grandmother, 
who blesses their kiss as her alarm rings, 
so she grumbles, and gets ready for work. 

Home Of Safe Concern

Home Of Safe Concern
© Surazeus
2026 08 24

Star angels laugh at how you hide your hopes 
in fresh-printed pages of the dream book 
that sprouts toad legs and hops across the road 
to offer scorpion of your wounded heart 
ride across abyss of eternity 
though you know you will drown in tears of joy. 

When you run back home from the river shore 
and tell me how your soul was shocked by faith 
at sight of gray light on water of time, 
you smile and dance like the seven-eyed crow 
who teaches you the way to count snowflakes 
as if your letter will never reach me. 

You walk around the empty room of light 
to paint words of your dreams on walls of time, 
then declare each rune from egg of your tears 
is one black snowflake from the broken moon, 
but you conceal what you treasure the most 
while waiting for the bus that never comes. 

Never one to dismiss socialized claims 
of authenticity through gambled fate, 
you tell every person you never meet 
that you deserve the home of safe concern 
where books disguised as cats lounge in sunlight 
that never stops gleaming through eyes of glass. 

You tell me with joy sparkling in your eyes 
that you met the fairy queen, with long hair 
orange as sunset glow on the mountain peak, 
who gave you silver grail with holy blood 
which made you drunk with psychic ecstasy 
so you keep dancing for ten thousand years. 

When you wake from near death experience 
with one heart trapped in crow of everywhere, 
you tell me you saw White Horse of Despair 
who showed you first sky of soul liberty 
that opens in your mind with wings of hope, 
but you ask if she is God in disguise. 

You take me up the winding stair of truth 
to the top room in the tower of thought, 
and show me the comb that Rapunzel used 
to comb her hair with loneliness of love, 
then asks me if I loved your mother well, 
and why I kept her prisoner of fear. 

When you are finished reassembling mask 
which I have worn since I escaped from Hell, 
you sprout swan wings of arrogant dismay 
and fly away across the galaxy 
to dwell on planet of the singing book 
in which you hide the sorrows of your joy. 

Fear Of Wordless Death

Fear Of Wordless Death
© Surazeus
2026 08 24

Extreme silentness of the sleeping child 
no more disturbs with fear of wordless death 
calm meditation on state of this world 
where towns linked by network of signless roads 
flutter with ghosts of faceless energies 
tangled in cables of the world wide web. 

From earthen womb of communal desire 
our bodies writhe into firm social shape, 
designed by legal representatives, 
to play our roles in game of give and take 
through piranha religion of blind faith 
to celebrate the baby in the barn. 

Still echo from my voice of urgent thought, 
that seeks mirror image of its false self, 
stirs hearts of strangers on bright city streets 
with sole unquiet truth of final death, 
so they assemble in the church of hope 
to understand dark terrors of the heart. 

Face of that stern preceptor, who reveals 
unspeakable wisdom in river stones, 
looms over me as dark cherubic shade 
that presses my hot soul in freezing soil 
at endless sorrow of snow in stiff grass 
twitched by stark breath of angels passing by. 

Though murderous innocence of the sea 
soothes our anguished hearts with frenzied peace, 
we sleep through howling storms of social change, 
home sheltered by trees of religious faith 
that crack at laughter of the thunder cloud 
whose gusts my fathers imagined as God. 

Since beauty is bright mirror of our hopes, 
that beam from face of children born from fear, 
we gather inside ring of guardian stones 
to dance with heartless revery of faith 
and sing in harmony with screaming winds 
that shake steel towers so glass windows ring. 

Dreams of our ancestors, we living share, 
fill interspersed vacancies of regret 
with thrilling tunes that ancient mountains moan, 
so we hold hands and wander winding trails 
from timeless meadows down to market streets 
crowded with commercial hope to cheat death. 

Great Universal Teacher of our hearts 
reveals strange secret few accept as real 
that no wise God in clouds of swirling fire 
plans out trajectory of life we blaze 
with each heart-patterned choice our minds attend 
that keep us safe in haven of our love. 

Spheres Of Flashing Brains

Spheres Of Flashing Brains
© Surazeus
2026 08 23

My heart is borne by turmoil of the sea 
with surging tides of frantic energy 
that hurls me into flight on flowing waves 
above weird vastness of the everywhere 
since breath of time drives spheres of flashing brains 
to generate our bodies from her hope. 

No spirit beams in dark immensities 
where Eye of God stares from blind emptiness 
more dense than coiled despair of eagerness 
on threshold of chaos where swirling love 
devours whole planets of aggressive thieves 
so we stare awed at flames of nevertime. 

Since God can hear me everywhere I go, 
according to what my old father claims, 
I never speak with voice of sudden rain 
to hide my thoughts from tyrant in the clouds, 
but after my father dies in the grass 
I never see this God he claims is real. 

Awake in garden of the writhing tree, 
I pluck bright orange of wisdom from the sky 
and eat sweet juice of stoic innocence 
that fills my body with intense respect 
for aching sorrow of abandoned souls 
who ask each other where they should go next. 

I should express concern for laughing books 
that swallow all our dreams in tangled skeins 
no angel dares unravel from my brain 
to weave new moral code from secret truth 
that farmers scatter in furrows of fate 
so roots transform our bodies into fruit. 

Lost in vaporous fog of wordless hope, 
I gather ghosts of all my pasts to float 
in tandem with my journey beyond walls 
so tremulous gleam of our happiness 
converts fierce hearts of criminals to saints 
so they create instead of destroy things. 

Because the bird is born to sing in spring 
I listen to her voice of timeless chill 
when twisted hands of trees reach for the moon 
since she leads me to hives of honey bees 
where I fill jars with potion of desire, 
untainted by grim bitterness of time. 

Awake in this vast universe of ours, 
I translate evil from selfish intent, 
converting thieves to carpenters of truth 
so I ask Rhea, ghost of sparkling seas, 
if she formats my soul from verdant soil 
in something worthy of the moonlit sea. 

Code of Cassandra

Code of Cassandra
© Surazeus
2026 08 23

To live well in this crazy world of lies 
I follow Code of Cassandra with care 
by writing riddles of satiric faith 
that guide my way in maze of clashing wills 
when I attempt to navigate with class 
opposing forces of partisan pride. 

I will never explain arcane details 
that compose Code of Cassandra with keys 
designed to unlock doors of potent facts 
essential to assemble from word gears 
financial engine of social exchange 
by which we journey to the Promised Land. 

Dynamic order of exotic scale 
now blueprints Code of Cassandra as guide 
for angels to construct our new world view 
providing mental tools of clever sight 
for every human mind to analyze 
state of the world with honest strategies. 

If we decide with hope to certify 
patterns in Code of Cassandra that ply 
melodious vibes of nominal respect, 
we should administer objective laws 
designed to monitor momentous growth 
as brave liaison to Queen Liberty. 

Since children dancing on the broken door 
intimate Code of Cassandra reveals 
logistic course of learning based on gems, 
we might orchestrate stoic privacy 
for every person who renders dream aid 
to faceless ghosts with severe innocence. 

Permission to transcend our fragile souls, 
allowed by Code of Cassandra with drive 
that motivates our ploy for excellence, 
alarms soul-controlling faction of fools 
who try to block our most lucrative deals 
when we found another franchise of faith. 

Module of lifetime mortgages entraps 
normalized Code of Cassandra with proof 
we now are simple singers on lit stage 
expressing hidden angst of human hearts 
who struggle to succeed against all odds 
since the system is rigged against false faith. 

Since vital flash of my spirit suggests 
schedule for Code of Cassandra to spool 
complex networks of interacting minds 
spread across the spectrum of divine types, 
I analyze intensity of hope 
to reprogram how my brain perceives you. 

Library Of The Laughing Book

Library Of The Laughing Book
© Surazeus
2026 08 23

To paint the color of soft river sand 
with simple sorrow of the happy girl 
who loves to dance among the apple trees, 
she asks Icarus with butterfly voice 
if he will teach her body how to fly, 
but his open mouth shimmers ocean full. 

Strange gleam of sunlight on the asphalt street 
reveals true nature of gossamer thoughts 
which veil her body on lawn of wet grass 
before library of the laughing book 
which records in writhing runes of the real 
sad tale of every soul who ever lived. 

Before Tara can escape the empty church, 
the vampire disguised as priest in black robe 
traps her spirit as the white butterfly 
who flutters desperately in the glass jar 
which Joshua taps when he visits at dusk 
when he searches for how she disappeared. 

Grinning at clever joke the vampire priest 
tells to hypnotize him with snake eyes, 
Joshua pulls hat low over his pale face 
and fillips river stone that cracks the jar 
just as the priest shrieks in terrible rage 
so she flies away as he dodges claws. 

Holding hands with firm compassion of trust, 
Tara and Joshua run over the field 
among cows of melancholy desire 
while the priest transforms into thirsty bat 
that chases them when clouds hide the bright moon 
till they hide in her cave on the lake shore. 

Clutching oak wand he carved into sharp point, 
Joshua gazes in eyes of Tara, green 
as thick moss on the river stone of faith, 
then lunges at dark shadow of despair 
to stab the priest straight through his rotten heart, 
who writhes and shrieks till his soul dissipates. 

Digging behind the church in morning light, 
dozens of grim villagers excavate 
unmarked graves of young girls who disappeared, 
kidnapped and abused by the smiling priest, 
whose rotten body on the grass decays, 
and mothers weep over skulls of their daughters. 

Time reveals color of soft river sand 
when rainbows shimmer over wind-blown woods 
so Tara calls her children to come in 
who hop and flap their arms like Icarus, 
then gather at the table of calm faith 
to eat sandwiches and drink apple juice. 

Court Of Mental Guilt

Court Of Mental Guilt
© Surazeus
2026 08 23

Not too sublime for engine of the car 
to allocate resources for rebirth 
when we, from gnarly trees emerge unscathed, 
prefer to play chess in the living room 
though planes drop bombs on houses somewhere near, 
for we are frail as flowers in mute fear. 

Concern for how far angels fall each day 
diverts attention of our daily prayers 
to fractured state of global politics 
which sparks new paradigms from social change 
when hordes of people clash in cyber war 
over whose world view describes the real world. 

No bells are heard in leafy neighborhoods 
from churches crowded on the summer day 
when devils wearing masks of holiness 
preach salvation only for those who pay 
tithes to the institution based on lies 
that we will resurrect from graves of muck. 

When Alice returns home from Wonderland 
she finds work at the Pegasus Cafe 
brewing coffee for officers and clowns 
who play their roles in court of mental guilt 
that keeps society functioning well 
in game of fame between lawyers and thieves. 

Too often children who chase butterflies 
get lost in lush hills of Arcadia 
that shimmers as the Otherworld of Faith 
behind facade of this real modern world 
where orcs in banks and elves in galleries 
compete for profit from the vampire god. 

As agent of Talamasca, I search 
dark alleyways for ghosts of ancient gods 
who walk this world in standard human form 
for we embody energies of myth 
composed of tropes that replay old soul wars, 
even when I buy beef sandwich and juice. 

Under old oak tree in the city park 
across the street from office where I work, 
I eat lunch with Bacchus and Icarus 
who ask if I want to participate 
in heist of treasure from museum hall 
where masks of gods hang on the blood-smeared wall. 

I just want to map history of mankind 
in quiet library where screaming ghosts 
attempt to set distorted records straight 
till words in books bleed into honey bees 
that swarm the crowded streets of everywhere 
with sublime hum of engine in the car. 

Bend Bows Of Justice

Bend Bows Of Justice
© Surazeus
2026 08 22

Stories from history books bleed in my eyes 
so I ask the moon raven to hire spies 
trained in the art of painting psychic masks 
with features of demons trapped in wine casks 
who want to teach in the college of fools 
how to adjust engines with mental tools. 

When I visit ancient city of spires, 
where angels twist books into rubber tires, 
Persephone comes from the underworld 
to show me where river dragons lie curled 
as if to fertilize our minds with dreams 
about how we better survive in teams. 

With each satiric joke of solemn truth, 
carved on temple walls by messiah sleuth, 
my tricks dismantle your poetic code 
which helps us navigate the open road 
to understand pain of love in divorce 
though we stick strictly to the moral course. 

Haloed by immense glow of timeless hope 
where she wanders on the time-shifting slope, 
her shadow wavers on the mountain ridge 
as she directs construction of the bridge 
that links our souls over abyss of love 
till angels descend from Heaven above. 

When Rama and Odysseus first meet 
on cliffs of Moher to fight the space fleet, 
they bend bows of justice with hearts of faith 
to shoot words of wisdom at the star wraith 
which liberates Sita and Penelope 
who prepare the fast with their recipe. 

Through taste of copper, bitter in my mouth, 
when ghosts of sorrow haunt homes of the south, 
I climb the highest mountain on this globe, 
dressed only in white hermit-mission robe, 
to seek salvation from ethereal breath 
so I accept finality of death. 

In vast cavern near Sagarmatha peak 
I find the ancient truth my fathers seek 
that skull of every man who reigned as king, 
stored in glass palace where blind angels sing 
sits silent on extensive rows of shelves, 
polished and labeled by professor elves. 

I try to map flow of human events 
through policies of kings and presidents, 
but history was built by the commoner, 
from the farmer to the dream carpenter, 
and by women who cook meals everyday 
while their children in the fruit garden play. 

Faceless Ghosts Of Vanity

Faceless Ghosts Of Vanity
© Surazeus
2026 08 22

With elegant grace of artistic faith 
I stroll awed along labyrinthine streets 
over sculptured bridge of the timeless river 
in majestic city of golden light 
where sun-bleached marble temples crown high hills 
as silent sentinels of grand events. 

On time-worn cobblestones of urgent care, 
where centuries of footsteps echo soft, 
I wander slow past weathered stone facades 
encrusted with dust of eras long past, 
to explore crumbling palaces of pride 
where spirits of antiquity watch me. 

Beneath palimpsest of history I read 
tales of many generations concealed 
in monumental plays of fortitude, 
performed by long-forgotten dynasties 
in chronicles of sorrow etched in stone 
by endless wind of change that knows my name. 

Anchored in bedrock of brave principles 
on foundation fused in soil of desire, 
this sprawling palace of some tyrant king 
arrests the natural landscape with contempt, 
now heavy with unspeakable despair 
that still asserts authority of death. 

Despite bombastic arrogance of time 
that crushes dynasties of kings to dust, 
I stroll with ostentatious obviousness 
that my genetic coils of spirit grief 
unravel from flesh of those royal fools 
who crowned themselves great rulers over fate. 

Awake this prayerless hour of vivid hope 
in open-air archive of human triumph, 
that pulses still beneath ruins of fate, 
I explore grand monument of endurance, 
that looms proud against erosion of time, 
at veil worn thin between me and the past. 

These standard feelings of the long-gone past, 
that shimmers in sunrays on feet-worn streets, 
stir in hearts of every human being 
who visits ancient cities of the world, 
so I must laugh that my heart feels them too, 
though I wear mask of innocent respect. 

Trapped by nostalgia for time-unspooled past, 
I photograph with eye-phone of my heart 
myself before grand monuments to pride 
where men who played god on stage of this city 
are now but faceless ghosts of vanity 
whose selfish commands whisper in the breeze. 

Safe Environment Of Hope

Safe Environment Of Hope
© Surazeus
2026 08 22

My frail heart swells with pungent gratitude, 
derived from experience of old age, 
that I have been able, with sturdy faith, 
to maintain safe environment of hope 
for my children to thrive through confidence, 
brave in haven of my protective tomb. 

Productive chaos stirring urban scenes 
secures deep source of energetic growth 
for people joined in contract of concern 
to thrive through dynamic communities 
preserving spirit of brave pioneers 
rooted in soil by hands of founding pride. 

Assertion of pure motive to create 
enough food for every soul to consume 
stirs sublime respect in all open hearts 
for strong beauty of cooperative work 
that binds immigrating strangers of fate 
in prosperous communes through liberty. 

Careful attention of our aching hearts 
conjures from soil of humble nothingness 
flourishing success of fertile desire 
that blooms ripe from desolate afternoons 
as temporary stay against mute death 
that always haunts celebrations of life. 

Sweet music of encoding instruments 
rings brightly in narrow streets of regret 
through durable discipline we direct 
to increase enrollment of carefree joy 
when spark of exotic passion expends 
secret equity of luxurious play. 

Lured by our host of mechanical mirth, 
we follow Bacchus and his prancing pard 
through winding streets of tragic loyalty, 
despite portable ordinance of greed, 
in frantic game exchanging oxygen 
based on scholarship of romantic sport. 

Though we cavort on fluid stage of fate 
to exercise free will of hard-won choice, 
awake on rugged coast of nonchalance, 
we must divorce our jagged hearts of hope 
from heart-entrapping game of synergy 
since rocky cliffs of gray seas understand. 

Alone in meadow of the weeping tree, 
I gather blackberries with trembling hands, 
then sit beneath the willow tree with swans 
and feast on sweet catastrophe of faith 
that children of my tangled genes will thrive 
long after I disappear in mute wind. 

Alone Tree Of Fate

Alone Tree Of Fate
© Surazeus
2026 08 22

No black rain is falling on this bright day 
while I walk to the Alone Tree of fate 
so I can translate prophecies of change 
sung by the hissing wind of emptiness 
that batters melancholy homes of hope 
where people eat at the table of faith. 

Though spiders in the garden of lost souls 
search for my heart in shadow of the clock, 
the shepherd who finds body of his wife 
decayed in bushes by the gushing stream 
breaks the silence of God with wordless curse 
that transforms his bones into twisted steel. 

When he wanders in the pasture with cows, 
the shepherd who programs computer games 
hears crystal angels singing in tall trees, 
so he gathers trash of their broken wings 
in plastic bags he piles beside the road 
till dust of long-dead stars encrust his eyes. 

Sharp shots of guns echo in autumn woods 
where angels run in trees of bloody bones 
so ravens shriek from fragments of their mouths 
in wild laments of shattered innocence 
with prayers to clouds inhabited by gods 
who laugh with joy at causing men to fight. 

Trapped in the solitary hour of death, 
the shepherd with gun of religious pride 
considers wetness of tall hungry grass 
when Bacchus dances on his empty grave 
with sober clarity of evening hymns 
that eyeless devils sing with pious faith. 

He kneels and touches blueness of the stream 
with anguish at the desolate secrecy 
preserved in neatness of the garden path 
where toads of panic meditate all night 
against dire quietness of his cold breath 
so he clamps ears against rustle of leaves. 

Bright destitution of his childhood days 
returns with brittle innocence of love 
at that dark hour when eyes of seers expand 
with muffled clang of bells in empty church 
where angels wear masks of children we name 
before they sink in muck of holy war. 

Trapped in their mournful pilgrimage to Hell, 
the people of the nation blessed by God 
lie down together on the shattered plain 
and stare at nothingness of glowing screens 
that flash elusive visions of world peace 
till we become the gods we idolize. 

We Build Another Troy

We Build Another Troy
© Surazeus
2026 08 21

From Troy our urgent mission to survive 
drives our wheeled train of homeless refugees 
to follow Venus sailing her moon boat 
across abyss of hope to colonize 
pristine gardens where ghost of Eden gleams 
from dire emergency of tolling bells. 

Through telescope of innocent respect 
we search for secret code in random stars 
that map our noble purpose with faint flash 
assembled in grand puzzle of desire 
to measure slow sequential flow of time 
beyond intense unraveling of fate. 

Indifferent audience of angels laughs 
at cosmic foibles noble heroes play 
while sanctioned by brave eagles of world war 
who lead parades of our triumphant loss 
against dark shadows in reflected glass 
of faceless enemies we fight each day. 

Of my first disobedience against pride, 
and fruit of my achievements soured by guilt, 
I sing with harp of David in my hands 
while lost in yellow woods of urgent faith 
where I pause at cracked tomb of Oedipus 
to ponder failure of our social dream. 

Wise oracle of concupiscent grace 
expresses stoic principles of calm 
with incandescent dance of mental vibes 
at trick of fame by tarot cards dealt lies 
exposing counterfeit creeds angels sell 
through prank of toxic masculinity. 

When kingdom-killing prophet of the laugh 
reveals sly bluff the Blindman conjugates, 
we strive to fathom absolute expanse 
of spaceless straightness tangled by fake words 
that throws our bodies on light curve of change 
so we hold hands from gates of paradise. 

Each time grand towers of bright Ilium 
are burned by agents of cruel tyranny, 
we build another Troy with bleeding hands 
to manage empire of corporate stores 
that binds our paths through corridors of time 
till we assemble in one church of wealth. 

When mantra-minded flower child of fate 
arrives from Underworld of bitter truth 
to fix machinery of the star-wound soul, 
contrived as psychic dynamo of faith, 
I publish odes of sorrow on the wall 
so ghosts of heroes hide in wordless books. 

Bitter Prayers Of Fantasies

Bitter Prayers Of Fantasies
© Surazeus
2026 08 21

After turning key of uncertainty 
I ask the honey bees of innocence 
to find home burned by soldiers of despair 
who barricade their hearts with polished stones 
fractured from idols of their social gods 
who feed on bitter prayers of fantasies. 

There is no substance in our enmities 
we gather to replace faint hopes of love, 
yet we ask honey bees of arrogance 
to build their hives of passion-pilfered wealth 
in home now empty of our family ghosts 
whose hearts lead them to wander windy hills. 

In ninth Troy of America we dwell, 
secure in tower where Rapunzel sings, 
whose anguish catches it afire this hour, 
though we continue with our daily lives 
through certain faith that noble minds prevail 
though faceless Helen walks the Earth again. 

Dark weeds grow from pavestones of social power 
where Brigid herds sheep on the White House lawn, 
and sings enchanting prophecies of doom 
while I play broken lyre of Mercury, 
yet she decides to give out fish and bread 
to people homeless from social collapse. 

No dream of paradise could paralyze 
our good intentions for democracy 
in noble mission to replace all kings 
with honest leaders whom people elect 
because they hear with brave ears of insight 
voices of the dead explain how to live. 

Heart riddled with weird light of star-blind gods, 
I hurl fierce curse of justice at the sky 
where no immense mind of the absolute 
ensures equality for every soul, 
so with eye of my brain in turbulence 
I seek moon-stark hill of electric skulls. 

Shocked by insistence of angelic wings 
that I transcend this fragile flame of flesh, 
I channel bitter prayers of fantasies 
through jubilant expressions of respect 
for brave endurance of our wounded hearts 
to face down the silver-helmed Seraphim. 

Indifferent to our solitude in time, 
the star-eyed prophet of the misty isle 
refuses to proclaim in busy streets 
crimes of the powerful who still exploit 
our bodies for profits they confiscate 
though we pray to idol of God for help. 

Empire Of Jocular Play

Empire Of Jocular Play
© Surazeus
2026 08 21

If we attempt to stop the clocks of change, 
and tangle voices in telephone lines, 
to silence celebration at dire hour 
the greedy tyrant tumbles from his throne, 
despair for life will burst from wounded hearts 
and crack the sky with fireworks of new joy. 

Contours of anguish wrapping hearts with hope 
divulge more passion than we care to show 
when we assemble on mist-flurried shore 
with plan to conjure from abysmal gloom 
new demon of despair to haunt our land 
and shadow our great nation with blind faith. 

Too many puerile farmers and bank clerks 
attempt to plaster laws across the sky 
more beautiful than carnage of world war 
when prophets wander lost in busy streets 
to find their enemy is almost dead, 
white-faced as angels they flee from in dreams. 

Yet we all pause from revelry at dawn 
to hear the starry-eye soprano sing 
heart-wrenching hymn of tragic innocence 
while gleam of Sirius, her guiding star, 
reveals the baltering torrent of our tears 
though we dance with unsteady ardency. 

Strange victory shout of cardiac respect 
may act as uncommercial catalyst 
for bold uprising of communal clans 
against incompetence of legal greed, 
yet we desert cathedrals of contempt 
to play exotic roles in public squares. 

My brain may now be vacant of old creeds, 
erased by brave endurance of concern 
in frantic storms of social dominance, 
but I shall rise from muck of sublime truth 
to rebuild empire of jocular play 
despite indulgence on the peccant stage. 

My wounded heart expands beyond its ken 
when Sibyl sings from golden cage of truth 
calm tablet-chat of arcane prophecies, 
so I translate strict formulas for wealth 
from purling laughter of clear mountain streams 
which knits immigrants in new freedom tribe. 

Since we will dwell in Land of Unconcern, 
brave bodies crushed by supple gears of change, 
fake prayers revive our souls of poisoned faith 
with mute inoculants, by angels brewed 
with brazen laughter for the shock effect 
that teaches us to value what is real.