Star-Wounded Mercury

Star-Wounded Mercury
© Surazeus
2026 08 29

Across crowded maze of our cityscape 
I hear cry of star-wounded Mercury 
radiate from world brain of our radio 
with eerie melody of aching hope 
for every soul alive to live in peace 
though they fight to control the narrative. 

To understand where, on the signless road, 
we are lead by star-wounded Mercury 
in progress of expansion from quaint farms 
to world empire with war planes that patrol 
bright heavens where star angels play gold harps, 
I map our journey to the Promised Land. 

With sword of justice in my red right hand, 
forged from fear by star-wounded Mercury, 
I rally farmers I vow to protect 
in holy war against invading hordes 
to guard enclosing walls of paradise 
where we raise our children in apple groves. 

Mentored by desert prophet with star eyes, 
who wears mask of star-wounded Mercury, 
I protect Rapunzel in the stone tower 
when she gives birth to my heir to my throne, 
so I found Bloodline of the Holy Grail 
to rule world empire built by Jupiter. 

Crowned with victory of my grand chess game, 
well managed by star-wounded Mercury, 
I organize ten thousand castle towers 
uniting nations in Gothinian state 
to colonize rich lands of minerals 
in corporate empire of the faceless god. 

Though world wars topple kings of fantasy, 
in game played by star-wounded Mercury, 
I orchestrate knights of the Holy Grail 
to fight over who wears gold crown of thorns 
in world conspiracy of wealthy banks 
through progress of liberal democracy. 

While wearing Talamasca of dream code, 
invented by star-wounded Mercury, 
I host religious rite of sacrifice 
in ziggurat temple where Ishtar reigns 
to crucify greedy King of the Wood 
who steals our treasure from the Golden Bough. 

Anointed to play Jesus on world stage, 
directed by star-wounded Mercury, 
I fight dark doppelganger of my soul 
till I assimilate in one whole mind 
spirits of Dionysus and Apollo 
so I become Lucifer who rules Earth. 

Listen With Calm Pride

Listen With Calm Pride
© Surazeus
2026 08 29

When he embraces clemency of death 
while wearing flannel suit and dark green tie, 
Scott ponders pewter-polished clouds of fate 
that teach his heart to listen with calm pride 
to obligations of the open door 
that leads him to the garden of dead gods. 

Though voices of children ring off the sea 
where war ships wait in harbor of respect, 
Scott asks the angel with time-bloodied wings 
if he can sail beyond edge of the world 
where ghosts of gods on gold horizon gleam 
with threat of sudden invasion by fear. 

While cows chew cud in fields of fractured skulls 
where fighter jets scream across cluttered skies, 
Scott measures distance to the mountain peak 
from cabin by the lake where angels wait 
for savior of the world to come again 
in starship from some distant galaxy. 

Since time may leave him stranded on the beach 
where two hawks circle in the mirror sky, 
Scott flies large paper kite with haiku verse 
about bed sheets that flutter in salt wind 
with gentle gracefulness of dragon wings, 
then asks Minerva for pear-ginger tea. 

If he waits in the airport by the sea 
for lonely teacher wearing crystal mask, 
Scott never calls her on the telephone 
to tell her what the owl would like to say, 
then strikes the match so he can start anew, 
and lights the candle on the windowsill. 

Open hands catching drops of restless rain 
to wash the dishes in the kitchen sink, 
Scott tends his sick wife in the afternoon 
when sparrows in dead trees steal cinnamon 
for the mother bear who still prays in church 
while clutching amulet of innocence. 

Inspired by beauty of wind-carved alcove 
from gold sandstone that frames cloud-mottled sky, 
Scott calculates psychotic vibe of faith 
that nurtures broken hearts of wanderers 
dislocated from homeland of their tribe 
when strangers adopt them across the sea. 

Though dreams of nothingness haunt morning hours 
from careless arrogance of wind-swirled sand, 
Scott stands on stage with microphone in hand 
and reads verse he wrote on the broken bridge 
through framework of domestic quietude 
that serves as social glue in times of war. 

Laughing River Of Respect

Laughing River Of Respect
© Surazeus
2026 08 29

Free on the laughing river of respect, 
Zephyrus sails to city of glass books 
where he presents tale of the fallen god 
that seems to inspire workers to rebel 
against overlords who enslave their souls 
in war that fades from memories of men. 

Though children from Star Woman in the cave 
rule island of plum trees three thousand years, 
Zephyrus organizes farming towns 
to manage food-production of rich land, 
ensuring every person breathing air 
receives enough food on their plate of hope. 

Wielding star-forged Sword of Gathering Clouds 
that gleams with diamonds from star eyes of gods, 
Zephyrus battles the eight-headed beast 
incarnate as dread pirates of the sea, 
and slays them all with lithe alacrity 
to free the people of his land from fear. 

Painting portraits of heroes from the past 
whose brave deeds save humanity from harm, 
Zephyrus depicts normal human men 
as gods who represent forces of nature 
incarnate in our fragile frames of flesh, 
whose spirits possess men with force of power. 

Ruling people of Earth with honest fairness, 
as river god who controls traffic flow, 
enforcing passage fees on merchant ships, 
Zephyrus reigns in watch-house on the bridge 
where he controls commercial sales of goods 
as guardian over garden of his clan. 

Kneeling by laughing river of respect 
before Star Woman in cave of her heart, 
Zephyrus declares loyalty of faith 
to cause of her grand vision to unite 
all nations of the Earth under one law 
that treats every human with equal grace. 

Chanting verses from Epic of Star Eyes, 
Zephyrus sings before angels in robes 
that sound of the bell ringing in the sky 
echoes the impermanence of all things, 
for flowers show how the prosperous decline 
and the proud fade as dust before the wind. 

Awake by laughing river of respect, 
Zephyrus ponders nature of our world 
where humans work in companies of faith 
through hierarchy of responsible power 
to maintain our food-production machine 
that keeps us alive till every soul dies. 

Puzzle Shards Of Truth

Puzzle Shards Of Truth
© Surazeus
2026 08 29

To reassemble puzzle shards of truth 
that depicts virtual model of real Earth, 
Seraphus gathers masks of mortal gods 
who crowned themselves as great leaders of men 
to hang in Museum of Manic Heroes 
which highlights vanity of social power. 

When howling winds of social hurricanes, 
that represent changes in our shared zeitgeist, 
sweep through vast Museum of Manic Heroes, 
puzzle shards of truth in global world view 
swirl into spirals of chaotic fear 
that scatter principles all humans share. 

Separate world views, which religions create 
on grand foundation of heroic deeds 
performed by prophet of their cultural vibe, 
are deconstructed by woke warriors 
who fight to dismantle power hierarchies 
that favor privilege of wealthy clans. 

Wielding the sword Excalibur with hope, 
Seraphus defends with courage of faith 
Goddess of Liberty in human form 
who bears Lamp of Freedom and Book of Truth 
so she can guide lost refugees of war 
through storm to Museum of Manic Heroes. 

When farmers all across the countryside, 
bitter that politicians neglect their needs, 
follow King Midas to the Promised Land, 
they find themselves trapped in vast maze of debt, 
scammed by the greedy thief who steals their wealth 
and leaves them stranded in the wilderness. 

Aware that farmers who produce our food, 
which angels stock in stores across the land, 
were scammed of agency to live with pride 
by greedy king who wears mask of the Christ, 
Seraphus finds them in the wilderness 
and promises to help secure their farms. 

To reassemble puzzle shards of truth 
in new world view based on support of farms, 
Seraphus constructs world ontology 
for every nation on our spinning globe 
to focus fiscal programs of support 
on mothers raising children to grow food. 

On crumbling ruins of America, 
social system built on wealth privilege, 
Seraphus leads our project to construct 
new government focused on funding farms 
that nurtures families with faith in truth 
in thriving state we name Zarathia. 

Empty Books Of Tales

Empty Books Of Tales
© Surazeus
2026 08 28

Ghosts of our ancestors fold their tattered masks 
as origami puzzles of engagement 
to hide essential code of fantasies 
in empty books of tales that angels steal 
through clever plan to encrypt frequencies 
programmed to trick my heart with guarantees. 

Sylvanus stares at how the river flows 
in graceful curves around large stone of faith, 
concerned about excessive intervals 
that index legal statutes without keys 
translating illogical anecdotes 
to riddles of magnetic fortitude. 

No prominent inspector from the tower 
arrives at fountain in center of town 
soon enough to prescribe fake principles 
that manage moral behavior with jokes 
that reference our rational radiance, 
pursuant to unrecognized perspectives. 

Symbolic supplements stored in glass books, 
that define temporal syllabus of faith, 
upgrade mental functions of measurement 
through ultimate testament his heart screams 
against transmission of funds to the sky 
from virtual vanity his mind extracts. 

His brain of advantageous variants, 
contracted by the faceless gods of idols, 
rewinds warrantless clock of revenue 
through socialist drama radios broadcast 
to prove religion no more relevant 
that stories children draw in picture books. 

No sacrifice in stadium of state pride 
proves needless to the specialized reporter 
whose strategy to satellite salvation 
beams through visual virus of vanity 
libertine loyalty jesters revere 
enough to maximize potential gain. 

Honest leverage that saviors apply, 
while singing frantic hymns of motor cars, 
frame social ministry devils require 
through mutant melodies of manic love, 
quick enough to abdicate marketing 
contrived by believers in mysteries. 

Time-shifting paradigm of fairy tales 
provides permission for the populous 
to buy and sell their souls in grim exchange 
according to their noble heritage 
despite hurricane of the holocaust 
that we perform in theater of faith. 

Walk This Tender Earth

Walk This Tender Earth
© Surazeus
2026 08 28

We walk this tender Earth on haughty feet, 
fueled by the burning passion of bright rain, 
with mission to transcend bounds of this time 
through smoldering wisdom of the blazing clouds 
which seem to urge our journey against death, 
till we sit breathless by the gushing stream. 

We bury shame of failure in the grave, 
entangled with long roots of hungry trees, 
to find wealth we extracted with our hands 
stained red with blood of wanderers who grasp 
at fleeting shadow of security, 
amazed at beauty of the fractured sky. 

I weep at forests of tall graceful pines 
hacked into boards of office furniture 
that grew on mountains shoveled in hot stoves 
and forged in rumbling engines of fast cars 
that swarm vast web of asphalt highways fast 
against the silent loneliness of time. 

Along the road where my ancestors walked 
to build new paradise of liberty 
I travel east against their westward tide 
to find my neighbors locked in prison camps 
where angels of pure light in rotting flesh 
sing with the specter of the desert seer. 

With noble anthem of the broken heart 
I celebrate counterfeit victories 
achieved by soldiers of the bleeding cross 
when Twin Towers of global enterprise 
collapse in burning flames of honesty 
at second coming of the eyeless ghost. 

The universe expands beyond my mind 
where atoms spin wild spirals of desire 
so I feel surging tides of ocean souls 
flush through taut veins of melancholy joy 
when I rise from womb of our Mother Earth 
to dream through every soul who ever lives. 

Pure love for life as energy of song 
abides in writhing bones of my god soul 
with lithe affection for all conscious souls 
who glow with me in multiverse of fate 
that we create with every choice we make, 
constructing new world view from fertile myths. 

Born from the rain-wet woods of Oregon, 
that mold my soul from jagged mountain clay, 
I walk the endless road of holy song 
to praise immortal souls of flashing stars 
who dream their gods awake inside my brain 
while I sing in the crowded city maze. 

Old Souls Of Stars

Old Souls Of Stars
© Surazeus
2026 08 28

We are frail mortal dust that dreams of light, 
small fragments fallen from soul-beaming fire, 
old souls of stars that burned before the world, 
whose furnace forged our thoughts in molten time, 
and scatters us as seeds across cold void 
to wake in flesh and wonder what we are. 

We glow within vast crucible of suns 
when hydrogen sings hymns of violent birth, 
compressed to diamond hardness in their hearts, 
and burst in supernova bloom of death, 
propelling our bright atoms through vast night 
to drift ten billion years toward this green Earth. 

Now locked in bone we bear that primal blaze, 
clear glimmer of celestial memory 
that flickers when we gaze at midnight sky 
and feel strange kinship with those distant lamps, 
for every eye that peers in star-strewn dark 
recalls the home from which its light was beamed. 

The iron in our blood was stellar ash, 
the calcium that props our active frame 
was cooked in dying giants long ago, 
so when our hearts beat fast with love or fear, 
the rhythm pulses from that ancient drum 
that first began to throb in central suns. 

We think we walk alone on lonely ground, 
yet constellations wheel within our veins, 
their mythic figures mapped in neural fire, 
and when we love with grief from dream of gods 
we reenact grand drama of huge spheres 
where light yearns still for light across the gulf. 

So though we dissipate to ash at death, 
extinguished when the body cools to clay, 
our atoms lit in starlight cannot fade, 
but swirl again to join their parent glow, 
returning through the dark on silver wings 
to shine once more where new suns take their form. 

We are the universe that learns to see, 
the cosmos waking from its dreamless sleep, 
with eyes that open on the edge of time 
to watch itself unfold in bloom through thought, 
and in each soul that suffers, sings, and strives 
our star recalls its journey and burns on. 

As temporary souls of ancient stars 
we swirl in Earth to learn the shape of flesh, 
taste the bitter-sweet salt of human tears, 
and turn our timeless light to words in song 
so all who hear may lift their gaze above 
and know themselves as children of the stars. 

Solarium Of My Honest Heart

Solarium Of My Honest Heart
© Surazeus
2026 08 28

Each time I look back on road of my life 
to analyze progress of my secret plan 
to generate new life before I die, 
the future unspools world view of my heart 
so I become enemy of my soul, 
distracted by strange beauty of the sky. 

Stretching my body to waken from dream 
electric soul of stars, which animates 
aggressive caution of my hungry mind, 
I write tale of my laughter on the sky 
so I can drink ancient truth in the rain 
that teaches me the way my heart should go. 

Awake this hour in silence of cool dawn, 
I ponder why all humans live and die, 
yet try to play some mythic role of pride 
in psychic drama of our nation-state 
composed of children from One Mother Soul 
whose vision of the world programs our minds. 

I like to lounge beneath my apple tree 
and chat about true nature of the world 
with star-eyed serpent in long tangled limbs 
whose rainbow-feathered wings expand with breath 
to broaden scope of my brief consciousness 
so I almost become God I imagine. 

Each time some hungry animal or man 
attempts to eat my body for its meal, 
or enslave my soul to fulfill their will, 
I fight to maintain life and liberty, 
asserting my inalienable right 
to exist in weird drama of my faith. 

Our souls are conjured by dream of our brains 
as long as bodies function chemically, 
so I stretch tension of my body taut 
with lithe attention to limits of force, 
based on analysis of consequence 
I measure from results of active cause. 

I fashion oak limb into magic wand, 
tipped with sharp diamond from cave of desire, 
so, when they attack to control my soul, 
I fight with martial dance of graceful hope 
to guard Solarium of my honest heart 
where fruit trees blossom with sweet food of love. 

When I look forward on my road of life 
I cannot see the future I will live 
except through fractal lens of earnest love 
constructing paradise my heart designs 
through every choice of fate I activate, 
so I give you fruit to eat in my heaven. 

Jitteriness Of The Deer

Jitteriness Of The Deer
© Surazeus
2026 08 27

In evening shadow of cautious regret 
Carla treads through elm grove to flowered glade, 
toward blue house beside the round silver pool, 
alert with jitteriness of the deer 
to danger lurking in darkening gloom, 
body buzzing with terror of grim death. 

Stomping boots with earnest possessiveness, 
Robert searches for his runaway wife 
who cost three horses and seven cows 
when he purchased her from the poor blacksmith, 
and shouts her name loud in darkening gloom, 
heart pounding with religious rage of pride. 

Trembling in chilly wind of fearful hope, 
Carla knocks lightly on the blue house door, 
but glances behind her in shadowed woods 
when she hears him shouting her name in rage, 
and gasps when old woman opens the door, 
whispering hoarsely to hide her soul from death. 

Running toward blue house by the silver pool, 
Robert grabs thin arm of the frightened girl 
who stares at him with black eyes of the deer 
which attempts to escape jaws of the wolf, 
and grins at the old woman with gray eyes 
to explain the little girl is his wife. 

Frowning with concern as the moon glows gold, 
Catherine insists he let the girl go, 
for she is far too young to be his wife, 
but Robert pushes her with growl of rage 
with force that causes her to tumble back 
so her frail head cracks on hard oak table. 

In purple dimness of the twilight zone, 
Carla gasps in shock of frightened despair, 
then cradles head of the old crone with care, 
whose frail body spasms at jolt of pain, 
vainly attempting to stop gush of blood 
that glistens with horror of mute moonlight. 

Twisting arm free from hard grip of his hand 
when he drags her away from the blue house, 
Carla runs through elms to the gushing stream, 
pauses by the stone to softly declare 
that she would rather die than marry him, 
then jumps in swift current of hopeless fear. 

Crawling on shore of Plutonian gloom, 
many miles downstream from her lost hometown, 
Carla huddles beside the apple tree, 
and cries with anguish of hopeless despair 
when she thinks about old woman who died, 
then eats apples at lonely flash of dawn. 

Map Meadows Of Elysium

Map Meadows Of Elysium
© Surazeus
2026 08 27

Across the frozen fields of ardent faith 
I hear uncanny hymns of wordless hope 
sung by lost angels of the Pleistocene 
that lure me with enchanting siren call 
to journey eastward to the rising sun 
which highlights fruit trees of the Promised Land. 

Trapped in glass temple of the eyeless wraith 
that whispers proverbs about how to cope, 
I offer apple to Queen Melusine 
who bids I take new God Mask from the wall, 
then teaches me to use the Judgment Gun 
when I guard Heaven with my red right hand. 

When son of Jesus reigns as King of Earth 
with angels in hierarchies of state power, 
I ask my father, Archivist of Fate, 
if I can join cult of the Seraphim 
to play role in his global government 
as secret agent of King Jupiter. 

Attending sacred ritual of rebirth 
that takes place in the high Rapunzel Tower, 
I journey Sacred Way to Pluto Gate 
with acolytes while chanting Orphic hymn 
to seek wisdom through psychic punishment 
so I rise reborn as Prince Lucifer. 

Arriving at the Telesterium, 
to join in Eleusinian Mysteries, 
I experience cycle of birth and death 
while wearing oak mask of Persephone 
when I drink nectar of spiritual light, 
then sing in small Anactoron of Truth. 

Presiding in new-built Astarium, 
where Ishtar dictates Book of Fantasies, 
I lead worshippers in rites of deep breath 
that primes our minds to beam epiphany 
when we learn rules for psychedelic flight 
from Icarus who plays messiah sleuth. 

I seek salvation of the Rolling Stone 
which Sisyphus orients to build Stonehenge 
since Oberon hosts festival of elves 
to rule Empire of Earth from Avalon 
for twenty thousand years of solitude 
till hunger builds the towers of Ilium. 

I carve magic spells in runes on god bones 
while Tantalus gives Ishtar sacred orange 
so Apollon stores books on archive shelves 
at wizard academy in Oregon 
where I learn arcane art of pulchritude 
when I map meadows of Elysium. 

Brave Urgency Of Hope

Brave Urgency Of Hope
© Surazeus
2026 08 27

Inspired by gold-face shadow on pine hull, 
designed by dawn light gleaming through soft mist, 
Saphyrus ventures from ship of his heart 
to cautiously explore the waking world 
where breezes whisper in large silver leaves 
strange story of the way time unspools all. 

While constellations of the pre-dawn sky 
frame how his eyes perceive tree-bristling hills, 
Saphyrus stretches body of stiff limbs 
to activate brave urgency of hope 
for picking strawberries on the hill slope 
where sea winds prance on deer legs of desire. 

Urging the woman wearing deer-skin robe 
to shelter from fierce wind inside his heart, 
Saphyrus gives her strawberries to eat, 
and feels her eyes etch wisdom of calm faith 
on rough skin of his soul with tender hands 
that warm his trembling body as they kiss. 

When lightning, flashing across the gray sea, 
disperses clouds to unveil the bright sun, 
Saphyrus follows woman with green eyes 
down to the swirling waves of ardency 
where she floats on tormenting waves of time 
till he becomes the land that cradles her. 

Feeling as if his aching soul transforms 
to become this nameless woman he loves, 
Saphyrus chooses to walk by her side 
when they explore lush hills of rustling trees 
to fill leather bags with apples and eggs, 
then follows her up to silver moon ridge. 

Sitting before airigh of rugged stones 
at entrance to large hall inside high mound, 
Saphyrus feeds wood to the crackling flames 
as green-eyed deer woman with long black hair 
brews apple cider with honey and eggs 
that bubbles in brass cauldron of her heart. 

Slicing cheese that she makes from pungent milk 
where wooly sheep graze on thick tufts of grass, 
Saphyrus gazes at the distant loch 
that shimmers silver between rugged hills, 
and wonders if the ship on which he sailed 
from Ostia still lies on the pebbled beach. 

Hoisting sail on his ship of eager love 
that glides over the wine-dark sea of time, 
Saphyrus takes pregnant deer woman home 
from rugged hills of Caledonia 
to sunlit meadows of lush Latium 
where she breastfeeds their daughter in the garden. 

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.