Gothic Armor Of My Heart

Gothic Armor Of My Heart
© Surazeus
2026 07 19

Still alive on land ripe with certainties, 
I draw dividing line of innocence 
straight between reason and insanity 
so can I taste truth through infinity 
and stop where calm wind erases despair 
to convert guilt into hope without luck. 

Removing gothic armor of my heart, 
as grim prizefighter wounded by the word 
my grandmother speaks outside prophecy, 
I weed old Garden of Gethsemane 
where skulls of prophets sing without dream code 
that guides my way through epochs of world power. 

No shallow mercies of the castle court 
reveal source of iron in stringent caves 
where demons no longer haunt dreams of seers, 
so I design new theme for Wonderland 
that might attract the summer tourist crowd 
who love to watch Death judge the deeds of fools. 

Entranced by weird Saronic blue of time 
that shimmers on the timeless sea of truth, 
I wander somewhere in Arcadia 
beyond fictional framework of the map 
along the signless road of nowhere else 
to dwell in mountain temple of dead gods. 

Soft cries of owls in woods of harmony 
expose electric glow of urgency 
that leads us to small mountain pool of stars 
where Pythagoras counts infinity 
contained in measurement of simple words 
programmed as formulas we code from fear. 

Smoke from my humble hearth of fantasy 
towers in luminous ghost of respect 
so I stand small and frail on river shore 
engulfed by grand immensity of time 
that wraps my heart with ancient ardency, 
filled with conscious mind of divinity. 

Strange darkness of the boundless night contrives 
to swell my heart with love for the sublime 
that gleams with pristine beauty of our words 
when we exchange solemn vows of true love, 
then return to our tower of romance 
before lightning strike shatters our world view. 

Though sunlit demons of faith animate 
our fragile bodies with unholy chime, 
we explore uncanny vales of liberty 
in line with ultimatum of soul fate 
which calculates how far we have to go 
to build foundation of our global state. 

Taste Sorrow Of The Moon

Taste Sorrow Of The Moon
© Surazeus
2026 07 18

If I stand outside in hot evening rain 
I can almost taste sorrow of the moon 
sweet as honey on peanut-buttered toast, 
but when gods of ancient societies 
arrive with tablets and bottles of wine, 
we dance all night to celebrate true love. 

I hear soft voice of sorrow in gray mist 
when young Theneva, pregnant with disgrace, 
arrives on boat of wisdom on my shore, 
so I give shelter to the wounded girl 
whose father hurled her from cliff of despair 
then cast her adrift on indifferent seas. 

How far across the swirling sea of hope 
must I sail bravely in frail ship of faith 
to find lost homeland of lush Ithaca 
where prim Penelope in ribboned gown 
weaves tapestry depicting noble deeds 
of warriors fighting for security. 

All questions about nature of this world 
have compiled code of wisdom in fraught verse 
recording ancient wisdom of wise fools 
who proffered answers about how things are, 
so I lounge mindlessly on my back porch, 
plucking rusty strings on my old guitar. 

Though Achilles, gone mad with grief of loss, 
destroyed the city full of families 
to rescue Helen from towers of love, 
Odysseus sailed against obsessive hate 
past obstacles of fear and bitter pride 
to restore the city where his wife rules. 

With baskets on arms of companionship, 
we gather strawberries, mushrooms, and eggs, 
along with lavender and eglantine, 
from sun-drenched meadows of sweet innocence, 
till we find Theneva wounded on grass, 
so we bear her to cave of healing care. 

Now that I know name of that faceless ghost 
who haunts my backyard after the sun sets, 
I translate voice of thunder in wild rain 
to analyze state of the human mind 
processing global conflicts with old myths 
that celebrate the hero who goes home. 

Though we seem lost in rugged hills of mist, 
wise Wotadinus raises wand of truth 
and calls our names so we may follow close 
attentive journey of his earnest quest 
to build safe home with walls of honest stone 
where sweet Theneva may tend apple trees. 

No Face To Mask My Soul

No Face To Mask My Soul
© Surazeus
2026 07 18

I sit down with the natural sight of gain, 
against simple tones of exploding trees 
eager for commitment, since my eyes move 
with twirling planets of lackluster faith, 
if wings of peaches flutter with the clock 
heavier than fake sorrow rendered mute. 

Discerned adjustment of extensive space 
between faces of strangers on the street 
too important to sell, with radiant smiles, 
sounds of silence through mediocrity, 
if thoughts stumble blind into broken doors 
locked against hungry refugees of war. 

Gentility confined to edge of cliffs, 
unaccountable to agents of truth, 
hangs by crude rotation without new pens 
to calculate how soon death comes for us, 
if distance entrances hearts of believers 
stuck on the train that will never arrive. 

Not for all the wine of anywhere else 
will I go to Heaven on the glass hill 
because I want to buy your love with pearls 
as sign of holy sentiment I feel, 
if love stops emerging from wounded hearts, 
for how blue the sky always seems to be. 

As body with no face to mask my soul 
I walk the invisible beach of faith 
without sand in the story with no plot 
except when I agree without good terms, 
if angels have no alabaster wings, 
to sail the sea without the boat of skulls. 

Though death infers logical sense of fear, 
I persist without intention to build 
new house that is no home on signless road 
despite how love should act beyond the phase, 
if fate adorns aversion with false hope, 
from which is born cause of obscurity. 

He says he sees my picture on the wall 
in railway station underneath the church 
where zombies worship vampire as their god 
who plays disc jockey on the radio, 
if we are amazed by obvious things, 
broadcasting revolution in hip code. 

Still shored against grim ruins of the past, 
that buzzes facts of history in my brain, 
I deign to anticipate, with sly jokes, 
collapse of our empire just before lunch, 
if we share power to operate fate, 
because the end of the world is postponed. 

How Quiet Blueness Knows

How Quiet Blueness Knows
© Surazeus
2026 07 18

With startled eyes on quivering twine of truth 
I cast my longing in vast sea of dreams 
but I catch nothing more than devil-gods 
who think they are brave rulers of the world, 
so I lurk in strange shadows of the mind 
to multiply my soul as wordless books. 

I walk on shifting sands of honesty 
to prove I know the secret name of God 
who floods parched land of hope with bitter tears 
where we drown laughing in sorrow we sold 
so we can buy gold castle of the clouds 
designed by children in library rooms. 

Awake on blackberry lane without fear, 
I gather fragments of ghosts from burned books 
to plaster them in beehive of delight, 
concerned for lesser platitude of light 
contained in boxes stacked with silent thought 
despite how quiet blueness knows our names. 

Because I open wide my quiet voice 
with long contrition of excessive hope, 
I blindly wander green fields of dismay 
in search for ordinary time alone 
because I need new battery for my heart 
to understand what strangers want to say. 

No road is straight enough to follow home, 
though they extend beyond hills of esteem 
with proverb I should overcome my fear 
for loss of people I try not to love 
because they disappear in swirling fog 
each time I call their name at stubborn dawn. 

Across bleak moorland to gray city streets 
I follow twisted signs of pulchritude 
on mission to repair bridge of disgrace 
with fractured concepts of seasonal wealth 
derived from sales of flowers to the dead 
before lamps flash while swinging in rain wind. 

Another harried age of our weird world 
returns with summer glow of hungry leaves 
refracting rainbow demons through our hearts 
so we hear spiders sing with ruthless love, 
undone by beauty of her maskless face 
without exception of uncertain truth. 

Through hedonistic wholeness we aspire 
to float on sprawling silence of god eyes, 
based on the stark indifference of grace 
that splits unsteady happiness with smiles 
while we walk endless trail of dire renown 
to channel typhoon winds with humble hymns. 

Art Of Losing Things

Art Of Losing Things
© Surazeus
2026 07 18

Almost unseen in the hot summer sun, 
the faceless ghost who haunts my large back yard 
watches me with ancient eyes of regret, 
but when I approach her in soundless glow 
of heatwaves shimmering over dry grass 
she vanishes into ache of my heart. 

Just as I almost forget she is real, 
she reappears from shadow of desire 
to show me tremendous fish of her heart 
that she caught from deep lake of innocence, 
speckled with lime rosettes of secret code, 
which pulses with rainbow of rented truth. 

With eyes that glare at long-dead stars of faith, 
she tells me I should master with intent 
the art of losing things I value most, 
so I spend hours searching for dream keys 
that I am sure I left beside the door, 
while she stares weeping at her broken watch. 

I write her story in my book of tales 
with golden blood of angels as my ink, 
but every morning when I look again 
the words have vanished into beams of light 
cast by the midday sun through web of limbs 
from trees that seem to understand her heart. 

Her life must be disaster of desire, 
strange drama never seen on stage of fame, 
because she walks along the winding flow 
of red Scamander River on the plain 
below the hill where towers of Ilium 
crumbled into words of lost epic poems. 

While I sip ginger tea on the back porch, 
idly plucking strings of my broken lyre, 
she grips my arm with weird beatific smile, 
and tells me this day when the tyrant falls 
is the most beautiful day of the year 
but tomorrow we must get back to work. 

Because I think I hear the forest elf 
whistle as she dances on moonlit grass, 
I feel my heart drawn taut as silver string 
that twangs with wordless voices of the land 
where star-eyed owls of Nowhere Land keep watch 
over ghost-crowded streets of paradise. 

Eyes half-closed against the bright summer sun, 
that shimmers gold in canopies of trees, 
I hear eerie song of the faceless ghost 
whose sweet mercurial voice of secret love 
reveals the presence of Athena near, 
because I am the sorrow of her tear. 

Graves Of The Nameless Dead

Graves Of The Nameless Dead
© Surazeus
2026 07 17

Awake in ghost-glow of the city maze 
that sprawls across vast plain of anguished wind 
where turgid swamps once festered amid palms, 
I walk along the endless lamplit roads 
past thousand churches with harsh clanging bells 
where frightened people pray to stick of wood. 

When I slouch despondently by the sea, 
the mad-eyed Fletcher from dark mountain woods 
points to the trembling topaz of his heart 
which I mistake to be the Evening Star, 
so I return to cave of humming ghosts 
where diamonds glow with light of the First Flash. 

Orpheus wanders with his broken lyre 
through choking shadows of the underworld 
because no faceless ghost with wavering voice 
follows his untuned melody of faith 
in vain attempt to escape numbing fear 
that we return to mute flame of our birth. 

I trust dire vision of Orpheus more 
than deceptive lie of the afterlife 
that Paulus preached by the tomb of Platon 
because our bodies cannot resurrect 
from organ-crushing nothingness of death, 
nor do our souls linger mute in dark Hell. 

Though I descend to grim Plutonian caves, 
where Orcus whips chained slaves to mine more gold, 
I find no spectral spirits of the dead 
for they are living men enslaved by greed 
who toil in Underworld where treasures bleed 
tears of despair from men who long to die. 

Two souls of immortal transciency meet 
in circle of firm flesh on jagged hill 
to weave taut threads of spirit-binding genes 
that sparks divine soul of immortal hope 
with words of truth unheard in human speech 
which flare forth flame of faith in dreaming eyes. 

Though stars that flicker with beautiful gleam 
burned out to lightless spheres of spinning gas 
millions of years ago in swirl of time, 
their rays of hope appear in our night skies 
with surge of blood-tides in our mortal hearts 
so we express our faith in solemn hymns. 

Orpheus strums the lyre of Mercury 
and sings about the lonely odyssey 
of wily men who learn through suffering 
to honor sacred pale of every home 
by offering shelter to lost refugees 
who build homes on graves of the nameless dead. 

Weird Alphabet Code

Weird Alphabet Code
© Surazeus
2026 07 17

Diurnal factor of the holy mind 
recalculates process of vital faith 
that resurrects from rancid vibrancy 
new state of mind based on theory of play 
through which my hungry heart recalibrates 
sacred path I blaze to avoid world fame. 

The multiverse represents all the worlds 
our brains can imagine as possible, 
but they all emanate through fantasy 
from this real universe in which we live, 
so we must see this world as it exists, 
messy confluence of willful desires. 

Strange wisdom of the rising sun requires 
focused attention of the filtered mind 
to assemble random facts about life 
in ever-shifting puzzle of half-truths 
as kaleidoscopic lens of desire 
through which we perceive what we want to see. 

Disguised as old woman in flower dress 
who has taught grade-school children forty years, 
Seraphus reveals weird alphabet code 
composing words in sentences of hope 
which frames reality of swirling atoms 
in mental paradigm of social truths. 

When I see white horse gallop on grass plain 
with gusts of wind that cause tall trees to swirl, 
I track how my brain processes this scene 
as linguistic function of formal ideas 
to signify objects with qualities 
that describe actions they perform in time. 

Though my brain places label on its form 
describing how the white horse swiftly runs, 
I note how static word fails to present 
swirling complexity of active life, 
yet focuses attention of my mind 
on how to visualize its vibe with verse. 

Quotidian process of analog thoughts 
weaves concepts in digital images 
through frantic analysis based on vibes 
that produce grand portrait of human brains 
tangled with random memories of pain 
which motivates our need to invent truth. 

Expansive scope of beautiful conceptions 
encloses complex forces in whole swirl 
framed by accelerating sphere of fate 
that generates our bodies from coiled genes 
powered by electric soul of the brain 
which animates our minds with flash of love. 

Desolate Texas Highway

Desolate Texas Highway
© Surazeus
2026 07 16

Cold wind howls on desolate Texas highway 
where Darlene trudges to end of the world 
after running away from house of sorrow 
where her cruel step-father stumbles home drunk 
and beats her mother to steal all her money 
she earns working as a waitress all night. 

Death walks beside her on dark Texas highway 
but Darlene ignores his demonic eyes 
and sneers at thunder that cracks walls of Heaven 
by twisting rainbows into tangled knots 
to calculate process of righteous anger 
that guides her journey across the waste land. 

Black van stops on the naked Texas highway 
so Darlene runs into the howling wind 
but three men drag her to the hotel prison 
where old businessmen and youth pastors pay 
with coins of despair forged from bitter laughter 
to treat her like their sad wives they despise. 

Running nowhere on the bruised Texas highway 
after Darlene shoots mean pimp in the head, 
she stumbles barefoot in the marble palace 
where graceful ghosts worship Helen of Troy 
who tries to hide inside the golden idol 
to escape death from domestic abuse. 

When we meet on the dusty Texas highway 
Darlene gives me cracked mask of Lucifer 
so I play noble role of tyrant-slayer 
in revolution for justice and truth 
till she gets trapped in Tower of Rapunzel 
as popstar who sings on the stage of fame. 

Ghost horse in drizzle on gray Texas highway 
guides Darlene home to the small country town 
where Vulcan works as car engine mechanic 
who plays indie folk in the smokey bar 
with mercurial voice of sincere compassion 
for children killed in genocidal wars. 

Hitchhiking west on the lone Texas highway, 
Darlene considers secret of the moon 
that shimmers in silver lake of discretion 
with arcane formulas of moral code 
to program how our brains perceive the world 
as ever-shifting puzzle of tall tales. 

Devils dance on deserted Texas highway 
though Darlene unravels clock of her mind 
transformed from concept of the loyal turtle 
where the blind read lost books of tragic tales 
designed to hypnotize objective people 
with bright fantasy of the Afterlife. 

Mystery Of Musical Tunes

Mystery Of Musical Tunes
© Surazeus
2026 07 16

Though my brain oscillates with frantic hope 
that justice triumphs over tyranny, 
I wander blithely balanced just enough 
to eat hamburger at the Globe cafe 
and ponder mystery of musical tunes 
that cause the mind to hum in harmony. 

This hour of sudden weirdness, still unknown, 
becomes my destiny by lazy choice 
so I gaze far down hazy road of hope 
to see what strange opinions I should hold 
implicit in surroundings of bare hills 
which I map to analyze fantasy. 

Since I have no inherent legal right 
to be myself with mask of Lucifer, 
I decide to film events of my life 
as if my deeds are dramatic enough 
to compose grand epic of daily needs 
because time suits my passion to pretend. 

This disassembled puzzle of my soul 
might be composed of random sentences 
discarded by the wizard in gray suit 
who talks about the boring things of life 
without hook of the brutal question mark 
that snags blind demon from my hungry heart. 

Becoming more what I have never been, 
I eat last grain of curiosity 
to build new empire on productive farms 
because I gain from suffering I endure 
bright with sheen of forgotten memories 
that angels sell to devils in tool stores. 

Calm thunderstorm over the Texas plain 
reminds me that my spirit image fits 
well in social network of fancy games 
contrived by religious authorities 
based on deduction of justified theft 
in space cleared by arrival of desire. 

My brain projects virtual model of Earth 
on walls of the church where everyone prays 
for one king to rule nations of the world 
with secretions of the demonized heart 
healed by the humorous savior who knows 
how rapturous clouds appear in my skull. 

Since everyone knows truth becomes the hole 
in which our bodies writhe with pulsing words, 
we walk hand in hand on the garden path 
where blood-stained flowers bloom from corpse of God 
to climb the tower of water with pride 
since justice triumphs over tyranny. 

Backward My Dream Mind

Backward My Dream Mind
© Surazeus
2026 07 16

Backward my dream mind, vast as mountain vale, 
wild gushing waters of hope overtake, 
so on winged horse of innocent respect 
I travel abreast with Nature afar 
to comprehend strange music of her form 
that vibrates with psychic music of love. 

Forward with tattered pirate map of hope, 
remnants of friends in buried treasure chests, 
I search for in abandoned yards of dreams 
whose world of secrets I abandoned, lost 
by walking signless road of nowhere else 
till I find something lodged inside my heart. 

How many jagged mountains of desire 
I wonder wait for my mind to explore 
secret caves of cold fire, blue as dawn ice, 
where I would lay my body down to die 
still as sharp ache of hope that stabs my heart 
with eager passion to drink moon-bleak tears. 

Waves of the ocean reach for my soft heart 
with hunger to devour soul energy 
pulsing through blood veins with new strategies 
to outmaneuver thieves in business suits, 
because they sell cliffs to the gullible 
as suitable fields to cultivate crops. 

Another friend returns with stolen gems 
from naked underworld of honesty 
because he knows how to unpuzzle truth 
concealed in alabaster jar of oil 
rancid with secret desires of true love 
for beauty embodied in sculptured mask. 

My fake voice lingers in dim emptiness 
with shocking melody of bitterness 
sweetened by tumultuous ardency 
to sing with resonant silence of truth 
that cracks foundations of world empires 
so our faces become square as glass books. 

No wandering gypsy of the river woods 
dares curse my heart with unrequited love 
which I package with plastic dolls of fear 
for sale to discrete tyrants of concern 
though some prefer fake gratitude of fruit 
rotten with spices of arrogant faith. 

Marvelous thoughts trapped in fairy-tale books 
encourage me to question noble laws 
contrived to rig the social game of power 
in favor of the privileged elite 
who bury treasures outside paradise 
so I leave secrets hidden in the heart. 

White Horse In The Stone

White Horse In The Stone
© Surazeus
2026 07 15

The way we dance about the broken tree 
of knowledge, where three angels gamble souls 
against electric solitude of fate, 
reveals conceptual jaggedness of fear 
by which we prove our noble manliness 
with psychic levels of testosterone. 

Trapped in grim ritual of the shopping spree 
to buy masks and costumes for our new roles, 
I scrub our television screens of hate 
on holy mission from the Puppeteer 
who questions origin of happiness 
invented by the white horse in the stone. 

The way we gather at the flash of  dawn 
in ring of stones, that angels call Stonehenge, 
to sing electric hymn of shocking truth, 
inspires the eyeless aliens from Zar 
to teach us humans how to colonize 
the waste land with water pipes of desire. 

In every life I always play the pawn 
trained by Minerva to unpeel the orange 
as heartfelt gift to world messiah sleuth 
who rules United States of Zathamar 
through hidden network of innocent spies 
who sing about Orpheus in the choir. 

The way we weep with anguish of respect 
for people who die unfairly each day, 
because our souls dwell in no afterlife, 
exposes fraud of preachers who declare 
our wounded bodies will rise from the dead 
because our brains pulse with ancestral ghosts. 

Unnerved by riddles of the brain defect 
which fool me into thinking I must pray 
with plan to learn lessons from mental strife, 
I emerge dripping from swamp of despair 
to parade with jeweled crown on my head 
on global stage where I play Lord of Hosts. 

The way we type our thoughts in fractured verse 
in vain attempt to describe what is real, 
contrary to lies of religious creeds, 
expands scope of my conscious sense of self 
beyond strict bounds of righteous lethargy 
based on canon law of the vampire god. 

Inspired to wear bright mask of Lucifer, 
designed by my mother with glass and steel, 
I study potent vibrancy of seeds 
that bloom from footsteps of the daring elf 
whose kiss sparks my heart with dream energy 
which helps me code the formula for fraud. 

If I Am Someone Else

If I Am Someone Else
© Surazeus
2026 07 15

Shocked by thought-executing fires of hope 
that mold rotundity of Earth from words 
stolen by ravens from dark river shores, 
I charge subscription of strange elements 
that crack calm confidence in mindless truth 
with earnest plan to assert dominance. 

Careless regression from pastoral states 
of mind, contrived by articles of faith, 
contracts expansive scope of innocence 
smaller than the measuring spoon of time 
by which I scoop conceptual nonchalance 
with vague obsession of planless progress. 

Time seems to readjust intense display 
of prowess I project with neutral stance 
where I determine, through unseen design, 
to stand my ground against unnatural force 
that cracks foundation of our social state 
so we fend for ourselves in silent woods. 

Perhaps one thousand years of waterfalls 
have now eroded jagged mountain peaks 
down to wind-rounded hills of smooth regret, 
dispersing spirit of the heart on silver lake 
where ghosts of snowflakes swirl in summer haze 
till they become cranes of adjacent charm. 

Though I have journeyed on the rugged trail 
through seasonal blasts of hostile intent, 
when I reach the door where my best friend dwells 
I pause to savor with intense respect 
urgent passion to travel, now fulfilled, 
then turn around and travel home again. 

Exhausted by attempts to reach the moon 
on tattered wings of hope Icarus lost, 
I stretch description of my faceless soul 
inert on throbbing surface of broken rocks, 
cluttered in seething globe of timeless change, 
till I wonder if I am someone else. 

Disassembled brain of dream-powered gears, 
that oscillates between time-tangling poles, 
programs itself to change how it perceives 
reality through weird framework of tales 
derived from fractured memories of ghosts 
who vehemently deny they are dead. 

Though I once ran swift as the long-maned horse 
along winding stream of advanced degrees, 
in courageous plan to transcend frail frame 
of passion-filtered reverence, my soul 
expends excessive energy of faith 
to evade fate that laughs with tender love. 

National Zoo Of Fame

National Zoo Of Fame
© Surazeus
2026 07 14

After I escape from prison of hope, 
and litter streets of fear with greedy thugs, 
I shall fly the rocket to outer space 
and live in my gold palace on the moon 
far away from the business office complex 
where the Swan of Tuonela waits for me. 

My faith links the fantasy of escape 
with brutal reality of confinement 
because I am the mute ape in your zoo 
who longs to live free in suburbia, 
in the three-bedroom ranch house by the lake 
with white sedan I drive to work each day. 

Though the signless road of my bold ambition 
grows dimmer every day I drive toward Heaven, 
in swirling smog where I can hardly see, 
I fight the devil with the silver star 
who laughs with shotgun of law in his hand 
because he knows I will never be free. 

Trapped within the National Zoo of Fame, 
by the senator who owns the gold mine 
on our land where my father tended wheat, 
my fierce rebellious lion-heart of faith 
is monitored by state psychiatrists 
who study mystery of the human mind. 

Exhibited in cage of my persona, 
I dwell in domestic structure of marriage, 
restricted by the law of give and take 
as I perform identity I stole 
by wearing suit and tie with polished shoes 
when I sit at desk of authority. 

I stare in mirror of my memories 
to wonder where my childhood vanished to 
in faded photographs of broken schools 
filled with faceless people who pray in church 
for savior of the world to rescue them 
from junkyard garden of the rotten tree. 

The photo of my war against the state, 
where I pose with long rifle on my hip 
while riding naked on my shadow horse, 
hangs on the wall of your suburban church 
to prove the wicked come to sorry ends 
as bullet-riddled corpses on dirt roads. 

My tragic flaw is I will seize the day 
despite the consequences actions cause 
when I design network of water pipes 
to provide social service of respect 
to every house in the factory town 
displayed in your National Zoo of Fame. 

Why Time Is Fake

Why Time Is Fake
© Surazeus
2026 07 13

Camilla considers why time is fake 
while floating in glass boat on the star lake, 
though wingless angels on the muddy shore 
keep disappearing through numberless door 
at sudden crack of bells that realigns 
statues of dead gods in conceptual lines. 

Staring at her face in the mirror gleam, 
Camilla thinks about joining the team 
of wingless angels to hunt criminals 
who abuse good people like animals, 
but three clocks on the vast cathedral wall 
unweave matrix of time in sad rainfall. 

Packing six paper bags of groceries 
while angels spiral through her ovaries, 
Camilla plans her clandestine escape 
from prison of her home in the dreamscape 
by switching money to her bank account 
with secret agent of the castle count. 

Bright headlights of the speeding car expose 
uncertain beauty of her private rose 
with flashing magnet of hypnotic trance 
through thought paralysis of her stiff stance 
at shock of horror that her husband steers 
car of bitter rage at her wordless fears. 

Crushed against her car at sudden impact 
of blunt aggression beyond legal fact, 
Camilla gasps in anguish of mute pain 
that sears through tattered fabric of the vain 
with mangled ardency of canceled hope 
untwisting order of her mental scope. 

Stunned awake beyond conscious state of fear 
at blurred flash of the unreachable near, 
Camilla writhes in buzzing blast of shock 
that sucks her spirit into the faceless rock 
where she becomes small seed of nothingness 
as swollen bulge on bridge of faithfulness. 

From open eyes of vast infinity, 
Camilla soars through sharp futility 
as wordless blood from gaping mouth of love 
gurgles desperately to express concern 
for safety of her daughter in the car 
whose eyes are fractured by the lonely star. 

While Camilla floats in the ambulance 
to gamble with death in fraught game of chance, 
police arrest her husband as he snarls 
with rage against disobedient girls, 
but the nurse pronounces moment of death 
when young mother explains why time is fake. 

Golden Hurt Of Knowingness

Golden Hurt Of Knowingness
© Surazeus
2026 07 13

While strumming broken lyre of Mercury, 
inspired by golden hurt of knowingness, 
I sing about the woman with nine hearts 
who founds world empire of Olympia 
which unites fractured nations of the world 
through Anglonesia of our eager hope. 

Eager to dance on the mirror-mind moon, 
inspired by golden hurt of knowingness, 
I open wounded heart of charity 
with selfless play through generosity 
to fund the private dream of every soul 
who builds garden of fruit in the waste land. 

Awake with passion for the common man, 
inspired by golden hurt of knowingness, 
I build safe home along the signless road 
for every human alive on this Earth 
to dwell in paradise of equal rights 
that gleams as fantasy in sun-bright clouds. 

While searching for the Holy Grail of love, 
inspired by golden hurt of knowingness, 
I gather geospatial data sets 
about every aspect of human life 
to map complex depiction of our world 
through detailed analysis of desire. 

While soaring on broad wings of Icarus, 
inspired by golden hurt of knowingness, 
I hunt vast city maze of broken idols 
for evil men who abuse and exploit 
other human beings for their selfish gain 
to free slaves of money from chains of hope. 

Alert to clever scams of corporate kings, 
inspired by golden hurt of knowingness, 
I track deceptive calls from telephones 
to huge fraud factories in jungle zones 
where job-seekers trapped in forced labor camps 
call us with offers too good to be true. 

Avid for grand agenda of the woke, 
inspired by golden hurt of knowingness, 
I gather abused victims of the world 
who fight as social justice warriors 
to defeat Midas and his gang of thieves 
who try to enslave us with credit debt. 

While wearing honest mask of Lucifer, 
inspired by golden hurt of knowingness, 
I follow Goddess of Justice and Truth 
who leads our holy war for liberty 
for every person living on this globe 
that spins forever in the godless void. 

Wonder At Beauty Of Life

Wonder At Beauty Of Life
© Surazeus
2026 07 12

Every road in the world leads to my home 
so I visit every home in the world 
and give my loneliness in ribboned book 
to every person in the world I meet 
who gives me their own version of my name 
that binds our hearts with brutal sense of hope. 

Startled by shining angel on the slope 
who offers me jeweled crown of world fame, 
I veil my spirit with mask of retreat 
to hide in small cave by the mourning brook, 
alert in shadow where my soul lies curled 
as curious fox hidden in pungent loam. 

Suspended between flashing poles of time, 
brief blaze of insight in my urgent heart 
reflects my soul in mirror pool of fate 
through transitory bloom of mental scheme 
contrived to wake my spirit from despair 
and teach me to accept seasonal change. 

Assertive purpose to extend my range 
on route to anywhere humans may care 
converts attention of my wordless dream 
to seek new occupation where I wait 
with curious breath that weaves expansive chart 
which heals my wounded heart with every chime. 

In dark uncertain hour before bright dawn 
at weird enchantment of familiar sight 
I meet the eerie presence of my faith 
in faceless stranger whom I know too well 
who asks if wonder at beauty of life 
inspires my heart to transcend fear of death. 

Fulfilled beast of my heart considers math 
that calculates inherent worth of strife 
to forge my soul from wisdom in harsh hell 
when I first name the transcendental wraith 
who teaches conscious potency of right 
that fuels my mission to unking the pawn. 

Since each beginning is another end 
that sparks my ostentatious quest for power 
I program vulgar passion to transform 
weak frame of wisdom in my wounded heart 
to bravery of the wolf who knows the way 
through timeless moments in bloom of the rose. 

When I arrive at place of my repose 
beneath the apple tree where devils pray, 
I build new gate from wheels of my dream cart 
since I am voice of every evening storm 
that rings in highest room of the ghost tower 
composed of faith that crumbles into sand. 

Secret Agent Of My Heart

Secret Agent Of My Heart
© Surazeus
2026 07 12

Because the secret agent of my heart 
is activated into combat mode 
when greedy devils of the corporate bank 
kidnap my precious daughter from safe haven, 
I transform into fierce angel of vengeance 
to harrow Hell and free blind slaves of money. 

When I was young, with tender heart of hope, 
I launched my new-built river boat of faith, 
encouraged by star-eyed ghost of my mother, 
and sailed bright river between tree-lush shores 
toward glorious palace of gold glowing clouds 
that gleams beyond horizon of desire. 

Yet bright illusion of my fantasy 
that shimmers with pleasures I long to taste 
lures me to city teeming with strange treasures 
that trick my hands to take what I desire 
with appetite for unreachable beauty 
till debt traps me as slave of hungry greed. 

Too many voices of seductive truth 
that echo with passion in city streets 
present bright fantasies of facile wealth 
through advertisements of brave services 
which offer easy solutions of power 
till I dispel them with assertive spell. 

Toward shining palace of celestial clouds 
I sail far from safe homeland of my heart 
but wander lost in maze of puzzling doors 
locked tight against dark thunderstorm of fear 
on mission to find daughter of my heart 
trapped somewhere in lush paradise of faith. 

I wander circles among market stalls 
amid chaotic turmoil of desire 
where people seeking treasures of the heart 
flow swift in patterns of rapacity 
till I lie dizzy in the field of skulls 
and call name of my daughter to the wind. 

Hands bleeding with rapacious hope for truth, 
I claw precious minerals from the Earth 
to mold material wealth of energy 
in forms of beauty that blind eager eyes 
with grandiose visions of national pride 
as hall of stone that stands ten thousand years. 

When I breach secure walls of paradise 
to find my daughter dancing by the pool, 
feet bound by golden chains of charity, 
I fight to free her soul from slavery, 
but wealth controls her power to create 
life from aggressive ambition of fate. 

Memories Of Dead Gods

Memories Of Dead Gods
© Surazeus
2026 07 12

When dawn sun opens mirror of my brain 
I reassemble framework of my face 
with fragments torn from memories of dead gods 
so I when I face the world at flash of fame 
my honest simpleness may shield my heart 
from slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. 

I get my eyes from Cronus and Saturnus 
so I may see heart of each human being 
that glows with secret passion they would hide 
when we exchange conceptual energy 
through tangled formula of sentences 
encoding sentiment in psychic code. 

I get my ears from Phoebus and Apollo 
so I may hear bright music of the spheres 
that radiates from first flash of the god eye 
when I translate weird song of ocean waves 
to pop songs blaring on the radio 
when everyone plays Sunday on the beach. 

I get my arms from Bacchus and Hephaestus 
so I may craft wave-leaping ship of fate 
from wood of trees I cut from Helicon 
when I sail seven seas on treasure quest 
to colonize the world with castle queens 
who rule cities at mouths of flowing rivers. 

I get my heart from Jupiter and Jesus 
so I may rule empire of pyramids 
controlling fields of wheat and herds of cows 
when I ride white horse on the hill of skulls 
to fight crocodiles in the steaming swamp, 
depicted as Saint George who slays the dragon. 

I get my brain from Athena and Hermes 
so I may envision in lines of verse 
deeds wise heroes perform as humble men 
who seek to understand nature of things 
as they develop through philosophy 
foundation of our world civilization. 

I get my tongue from Hera and Poseidon 
so I may sing enchanting spells of sight 
depicting complex nature of the heart 
which animates each human to explore 
expansive landscape of our spinning globe 
that generates our souls in pulsing brains. 

Though my frail mortal body is composed 
of fragments from grand deities of time, 
I pause from endless journey of my soul 
on signless road in waste land of despair 
and laugh at weird absurdity of life, 
then keep on searching for the Promised Land. 

Angelic Wings Of Fortitude

Angelic Wings Of Fortitude
© Surazeus
2026 07 11

What I experience is irrelevant 
to beauty of truth that shines as the sun 
which energizes atoms to compose 
fragile bodies that nourish dreaming brains 
awake with passion to taste fruit of hope 
that blooms from twisted anguish of tree limbs. 

Disconnected from valley of my birth, 
I walk on grass of exile without words 
to understand excessive flash of stones 
which ask what secret name I answer to 
by cooking bread from dough of fearless faith 
though wind blows ashes from my trembling hand. 

Trapped in dank prison of rebellious hope 
by chains of fear men forge from bitter hate, 
I spread angelic wings of fortitude 
to soar above vast maze of doorless homes 
but weep for people stuck inside despair 
till I fall back inside my fragile head. 

To escape that plausible state of grace 
against hostile attack of wingless fame, 
I transform into tortoise with steel bones, 
empowered by majestic haughtiness 
that I can fly on angel wings of faith 
to dwell in realm of changeless paradigms. 

My conscious sense of selfhood is programmed 
by all my fierce ancestors who have lived 
four hundred million years of desperate faith, 
therefore by now my brain imagines state 
of psychic power to transcend its frame 
alive beyond bounds of this mortal flesh. 

Deluded I can live outside my brain 
as faceless soul of timeless energy, 
I prance on rainbow bridge of innocence 
to organize delusions of my power 
in mural that depicts my divine myth 
which crumbles to dust of lost centuries. 

My soul that shimmers with light of the sun 
is chemical function of my sponge brain 
which animates fragile body of bones 
as vehicle I drive to procreate 
new body for my genes before I die 
since I will dissipate to wordless wind. 

Though I imagine I can fly with grace 
beyond bounds of my skull on wings of light, 
I always swirl back in shell of my skull 
and wake from nothingness of dreamless sleep 
to laugh with joy that I am still alive, 
surprised at beauty of this cluttered world. 

Snow-White God Butterfly

Snow-White God Butterfly
© Surazeus
2026 07 11

If I cast my bread in waters of hope, 
after selling devils ten thousand cars, 
I could buy descendant of Pegasus 
to fly above vast maze of city streets 
where people chase bright rainbow of respect 
till they vanish in television shows. 

With sharp knife of assertive innocence, 
I slice bread loaf of economic gain 
so every person in the world can eat 
as if food is the answer to despair, 
because the snow-white god butterfly knows 
secret passion of my casino heart. 

Though all gods humans worshipped in the past 
are nameless gusts of wind in sun-gold trees, 
I feel them ever present in my home 
for they haunt those who think about them most, 
small lights of hope in darkness of the world 
that guide my way in tangled woods of change. 

Ghost of my mother in her living room 
sits in the rocking chair of timeless truth, 
and knits another sweater of concern 
from huge ball of traumatic memories 
which she gives to homeless people downtown 
who wear them when they huddle in snow fall. 

Since the dream ghost of everyone decides 
to sell lamp of Diogenes to Thor, 
our bodies have become vessels of thought 
programmed to perform duties for the dream 
that hard work is rewarded with great wealth 
which we all share in our hypnotic trance. 

When Alfred the Great and Harald Fairhair 
play game of chess in Kronborg Castle court 
over who will wear the golden Crown of Thorns, 
Phoebus takes hand of Alof Gydhasdottir 
and sails with her to misty Isle of Skye 
where they fly his starship to Magrathea. 

Now that I know my whole ancestral tale, 
filled with men and women with starry eyes 
who attempted to build Heaven on Earth, 
I can relax on shore of River Styx 
and think of how to map world history 
that includes every soul who ever lived. 

After I work in the car factory, 
assembling engines from midnight till dawn, 
I hang out in meadow of dew-wet grass 
and listen to snow-white god butterfly 
describe how swerving atoms interact 
to conjure consciousness in dreaming brains.