Obscure Woods Of Hope

Obscure Woods Of Hope
© Surazeus
2026 07 25

Jortha tells Thor she is looking for Death 
because she wants to give him chocolate cake, 
but when she arrives in Folkvanger field 
she finds Freya lounging bored in Valhalla, 
so she talks to the owl in the oak tree 
about the strange value of traffic lights. 

Startled by luminous phantom of fate 
who beams down on escalator of light 
from black clouds of emotional turmoil, 
Jortha wanders in obscure woods of hope 
where she meets red-haired fox man in long robe 
who tells her his name is Elysius. 

When wild-haired fox man with electric eyes 
grasps her arms and asks her for help to find 
elusive butterfly of love, she smiles 
and guides him down to Valley of Dry Bones 
where Ezekiel resurrects skeletons 
from grateful dead who dance in acid rain. 

Among the screaming trees of suicides, 
Jortha leads Elysius to the glass tower 
where Roland and Rapunzel live in peace, 
creating collages of mythic tales 
from pictures they cut out of magazines 
which they display on cracked telephone poles. 

Hand over hand with courage of the fool, 
Jortha and Elysius, now deep in love, 
climb steep icy slopes of the Matterhorn 
where they relax beneath the Tumtum tree 
and watch the Jabberwock swoop on fae wings 
while they discuss weird formulas of fate. 

When Jortha stares at beauty of her face 
that shimmers in pool where Narcissus drowned, 
Elysius wrestles demon of despair 
to break her free from trance of bitter fear, 
then takes her hand to run down signless road 
to desert town where Glow Cloud looms bright gold. 

Heart revived by apricity of love, 
shy Jortha gathers from Elysian Fields 
mushrooms and eggs of serpents in deep caves, 
then asks Ceridwen to brew Wisdom Wine 
while old Taliesin in huge vine-draped stoa 
teaches Elysius how to play the lyre. 

Hitchhiking sea to shining sea on tour, 
Jortha stands on stage in every town hall 
and sings grand epic of philosophers 
while Elysius plays Lyre of Mercury, 
till one day as they drive in Tennessee 
they die when red truck crashes in their car. 

Orgasmic Flash Of Awakening

Orgasmic Flash Of Awakening
© Surazeus
2026 07 24

Every thought that flashes inside my brain 
contrives to prove with honest arrogance 
that unseen power of the universe, 
which my ancestors declared to be God, 
asserts its conscious sense of knowingness 
through analytic process of my mind. 

Though it seems I have come too late on Earth 
to understand true essence of the gods 
who dream themselves awake in human brains, 
I find they are alive inside this sphere 
as wordless voice in wind and waves and flames 
which speaks through songs that humans in pain sing. 

Each conscious soul who lived on spinning Earth 
the past four hundred million years of growth 
experienced moment of epiphany 
through orgasmic flash of awakening 
which programs how my brain perceives the world 
for their immortal genes design my mind. 

God is ideal conscious being of pure love 
engaged in progress of strict self-control 
as wise persona whom I strive to play 
when I transform from animal to man 
who exercises calm restraint of faith 
to manage intense passions of desire. 

I am the child who sails boat on the sea 
by watching one bright star of shining hope 
that never moves at center of the sky 
which guides my journey to the Promised Land 
as I evolve from fish to singing god 
while I tend fire on mountain slope of faith. 

One God Eye at core of the universe, 
enormous star of super-condensed mass 
through singularity of mental thought, 
knows every planet spinning in the void 
that teems with conscious beings of energy 
who seek to understand their mortal souls. 

I laugh at this delusion of my mind 
that White Whole Spirit of the Multiverse 
vibrates with one divine mind of the Self, 
fragmented into countless conscious brains 
who strive to transcend limits of the flesh 
and glow in harmony with everything. 

How beautiful this weird illusion glows 
that we are temporary sparks of life 
composed of atoms flashing in the void, 
so I stand high on mountain peak of faith 
and savor passion of this timeless hour 
that I am so awake because of death. 

Vital Source Of Life

Vital Source Of Life
© Surazeus
2026 07 24

Atonal vibes of social interactions 
confound my radar sensibilities 
with cross-cultural assumptions of truth 
designed to mitigate with torrid code 
misunderstandings through intense emotion 
contrived to bond our frozen hearts with love. 

Juturna sits beside the bubbling well 
each dawn to guard the vital source of life 
against vandalous gangs of greedy thieves, 
preserving fountain of nutritious hope 
for every person to acquire fair share 
so their growing community may thrive. 

Her small lithe son, curly-haired Faunus, plays 
with carefree joy around the fountain rim, 
molding mud into homes with garden walls 
where little people of sticks bound with roots 
dwell safe in haven of communal charm 
against invading gangs with spears of greed. 

This sweet idyllic scene of pastoral peace, 
set in pre-urban hills of Latium 
before Romulus built first walls of wood, 
forever shimmers in my morning dreams 
with blissful glow of timeless synergy, 
Juturna with gold hair and silver eyes. 

Juturna strums the Lyre of Mercury 
and softly sings harmonious hymns of hope 
while women with their daughters bearing jars 
wait in line for water of the well 
that bubbles from sacred heart of the world, 
as breeze of Zephyrus plays with their hair. 

How can I reconcile this memory 
of timeless beauty in Pomerium, 
where children run among lush apple trees 
and sing spells with starlings, thrushes, and sparrows 
in tunes that augur omens of good fortune, 
with global empire of machines today? 

From peaceful Garden of Pomerium 
at heart of our pastoral community 
we are expanding world empire of Rome 
to enclose within Rule of Jupiter 
Gothinia, Russia, and Zarathia, 
which transform into Anglonesia now. 

Though peoples of these lands contest for power 
in fractious passions of national pride, 
wise Jupiter Leo in the Vatican 
bears Wand of Zambor with Diamond of Truth 
to light our signless road of stoic faith 
as we progress in quest for Wonderland. 

Brave Quest Of Tiresias

Brave Quest Of Tiresias
© Surazeus
2026 07 23

The ancient story of philosophy 
begins when Hermes in cave of his heart 
invents the lyre with strings on turtle shell, 
and ends when Lucretius attempts to fly 
glider from cliff of Mount Vesuvius 
he built based on painting of Icarus. 

I followed journey of Odysseus 
across the land from sea to shining sea 
east from Oregon of the Promised Land 
back toward ancient home my ancestors built 
on sacred mist-veiled isle of Avalon, 
but found new heaven in Oconia. 

Halfway home to lush plains of Scythia, 
where my ancestors traveled along rivers 
in wagons pulled by horses they had tamed 
with apples from hills of Sarmatia, 
I linger in my secret paradise 
with my own Penelope in our home. 

My wife combines all three witches of power 
in one clever person with crafty hands, 
autonomous Circe who molds my heart, 
possessive Calypso who guards my soul, 
and loyal Penelope who endures 
vicissitudes of fate with honest love. 

Asserting passion of the wingless angel, 
my grandfather constructed small airplanes 
with wings of Icarus as metal blades, 
powered by piston engine of Barsanti, 
to soar on solid gusts of swirling wind 
blown whole by gentle breath of Zephyrus. 

Inspired by brave quest of Tiresias, 
I wake one thousand genders in my heart 
so I experience every state of mind 
through dramas all my ancestors performed 
as they explored wild landscape of this world 
finding soul mate to generate new life. 

Attentive with program of Sisyphus, 
I roll huge stones up steep slope of the hill 
where I erect them as tall monoliths 
in ring that mimics cycle of bright stars 
to build tall tower where Rapunzel sings 
enchanting psalms while strumming Harp of David. 

Grown old with long gray hair and dimming eyes, 
I lie in half-slumber by River Styx 
with stoic wisdom of work weariness 
where my grim father Saturnus once lay 
till eager Phoebus woke him with soft voice 
when Astraea gave birth to me at dawn. 

Wake Soul Of The Savior

Wake Soul Of The Savior
© Surazeus
2026 07 23

Across the jagged rocks of Mullach Mor 
I trudge toward rainbow of the silver sky 
at wind-borne cry of the Blind Falconer 
who laments anarchy loosed on the world, 
in search for revelation of the truth 
that Jesus himself will never return. 

Reborn through children of his star-eyed wife, 
brave Marya Magdalena, Mermaid Queen, 
who keeps them safe in cave of Mont Saint-Baume, 
Jesus incarnates in bodies of their offspring 
who wake Soul of the Savior in their hearts 
through sacred bloodline of the Holy Grail. 

Two thousand years descendants of his blood 
wear golden Crown of Thorns with jeweled eyes 
to reign from castle Tower of the Watch 
as guardian over people of the land 
who tend fruit orchards in Garden of Eden 
and wind-blown wheat in Fields of Elysium. 

Though Odysseus defies Host Law of Zeus 
by sacking Ilium with trick of the horse, 
then escapes island of the sorceress 
to reclaim his homeland from greedy thieves, 
Jesus lingers on Patmos Isle too long, 
plagued by visons of the Apocalypse. 

Raised on the lush River Ituna shore 
in Eden Valley of Cumbria Mountains, 
I learn to play the Lyre of Mercury 
from clever Taliesin, bold Gwynedd Bard, 
who gives me wine Mother Ceridwen brews 
which sparks Awen Glow on my radiant brow. 

Baptized in waters of Llyn Tegid Lake, 
I feel demonic energy of love 
beam in my eyes with bright serpentine faith 
when Dragon Teggie rises from dark waves 
and fills my heart with visions of mankind 
striving to evolve from Serpent to God. 

Far from deserted streets of Bethlehem, 
where Abram gave traveling angels bread, 
I stand on jagged peak of Mullach Mor 
to sing with serpent Voice of Prophecy 
about how all great empires rise and fall 
in ever-seething tides of social change. 

Another twenty centuries of dream 
may turn in endless cycles of desire 
for sons of Jesus to wear Crown of Thorns 
while wearing mask Odysseus threw away, 
so I become brave Lion of Respect 
who builds new nation with lost refugees. 

Apple Trees Of Human Hearts

Apple Trees Of Human Hearts
© Surazeus
2026 07 22

Some have called me the Complicated Man 
because I swerve from strict expected path 
through many twists and turns with just my wit 
by stumbling randomly down signless road 
forever nowhere to the Promised Land 
that shimmers gold as palace made of clouds. 

Wrath at injustice of tyrants and thieves 
has driven me through jeweled Gate of Hell 
with hope that I may purge my heart of hate 
and, fueled by love for every human soul, 
ascend Star Mountain to Temple of Truth 
where I play Lyre of Mercury and sing. 

As young man with my magic talisman, 
glass tablet eye-phone of the world wide web, 
aided by wise ancestor of my heart, 
I wield Slingshot of David to oppose 
brute tyrant who exploits the working man, 
then found world nation on equality. 

With Sword of Arthur I forge from the stone, 
and Bow of Odysseus I string with faith, 
I help Athena fight for Liberty 
so ever person living on this Earth 
may employ talents developed as skills 
to build global system of equal rights. 

Each day I work to map this complex world 
with tales on maps that record human deeds, 
I help construct virtual model of Earth 
to program digital twin of our world, 
yet one day Death in black carriage of fate 
will stop for me on Road of Anywhere. 

Though I never planned progress of my life, 
and wandered here and there on road of hope, 
chasing rainbows to meadow of mute ghosts, 
I have arrived at garden of my fate, 
having accomplished project of my heart 
composing Astarian Scriptures of truth. 

These scriptures I compose with honest joy 
detail new testament of my world view 
which I assemble in puzzle of life 
from every myth of every human tribe 
in one whole tale of failure and success 
through world faith of Astarianity. 

Now that I have translated song of waves 
to dream-encoded sentences of verse 
that faintly gleam with visions of my mind, 
I shall lie down by timeless Lake of Dreams 
so my bones become stones and my flesh soil 
from which sprout apple trees of human hearts. 

Where Ravens Talk Of Fate

Where Ravens Talk Of Fate
© Surazeus
2026 07 22

Too tired to understand why dark clouds cry, 
the girl who knows where crippled angels hide 
trudges slowly on dusty road of hope 
to gather berries from dream-tangled vines, 
but dodges gasping aside just in time 
to avoid the huge speeding pickup truck. 

Heart pounding from the psyche-jolting shock 
of almost getting slammed by metal grill, 
the girl who knows where lonely horses graze 
sobs hysterically while gasping for breath, 
then lies flat on soft grass behind dead oak 
and stares at clouds where no angels play harps. 

For some strange reason she remembers when 
her mother baked cinnamon apple pies 
while snow was swirling in sweet playful gusts 
of cold but friendly wind of starless night, 
so she pretends her mother is still home 
and did not disappear one summer dawn. 

After filling straw basket on her arm 
with blackberries, raspberries, and walnuts, 
the girl who knows where honest devils creep 
sits on the ground outside the market square 
to sell ten berries for one copper coin 
that glimmers with transcendent innocence. 

When she has earned twenty-four copper coins, 
stamped with the playful face of Mercury, 
the girl who knows where ravens talk of fate 
wanders crowded marketplace at sunset 
to find the thing her heart desires the most 
but that secret treasure eludes her eyes. 

Deciding to save the money she earned 
for flowered cloth to sew new winter dress, 
the girl who knows where fairies craft our dreams 
whistles as she skips to her forest cave, 
but three boys grab her arms and kiss her cheeks, 
then beat her as she struggles to break free. 

Scratching their faces with sharp fingernails 
and screeching in rage at their cruel attack, 
the girl who knows where dragons writhe in faith 
chases them when they steal her money bag, 
but falls to her knees by star-sparkling stream 
and cries to the sky that life is unfair. 

Heart-broken at the loss of hard-earned cash, 
the girl who knows where God sleeps in dark cave, 
stares at the television glowing blue 
while watching some old show in black and white 
about the girl and her swift flying horse 
who defeat criminals to save the world. 

What You Leave Undone

What You Leave Undone
© Surazeus
2026 07 21

You fix the hinges on the broken door 
to frame strange beauty of quiet sunlight 
through fraught ideology based on facts 
that measures consequence of mindless cause 
when you remember what you leave undone 
with deliberate grace of the figured sun. 

You leave your sorrows in the puzzle box 
on stretch of open country devils map 
with solid ambience of unclean thoughts 
constrained by brain-programming buzz of words 
defined by apparition of your soul 
that flaps as tattered star-flag on the pole. 

You offer whiskey to the zombie king 
who feeds three-headed dog of hungry hope 
fantastic dreams you discard in hot sand 
because you swagger on the desert road 
toward ghost town under burnished sky of dread 
that groans with bones of demons in your head. 

You stroll with ardent vigor of blind gods 
to play brave guardian angel of your Hell 
where blandished apparitions steal your cake 
with calm intensity of humble thieves 
who drive west to the last town of your heart 
where swift coyotes steal your fateful chart. 

You drive through dust storm of your vacant clock 
past humming fences of barbed-wire to steal 
torn cloak of death with tragic sense of greed 
by selling hope of paradise to fools 
who cling with faith of homeless refugees 
to Afterlife with holy apple trees. 

You kneel in pain by highway of despair 
as dreamless ghost to scrawl in swirling sand 
tale of your victimhood through suffering 
abuse from people who cannot see you 
as noble person worthy of respect, 
tricked to believe your soul will resurrect. 

You ask for how the Cosmic Architect, 
who drives your rusty truck of gratitude 
on long indifferent highway of the dead, 
could build grand temple from cracked skulls of gods 
to celebrate your life and death on Earth 
with solemn elegies of bitter mirth. 

You stare at mask of your immortal face 
reflected in mirror of Our World Mind, 
but you are stranger to your inner self 
who nurses wounds of guilt from your cruel deeds 
because you violate sacred rule of Zeus 
to welcome immigrants into your home. 

Ocean Shore Of Nevertime

Ocean Shore Of Nevertime
© Surazeus
2026 07 21

Alone on ocean shore of Nevertime, 
he waits for Lord of Heaven to return, 
aware of voices from eight billion souls 
expressing passion of their will to live, 
but no one comes from clouds of blazing fire 
except the mindless sun that rises bright. 

Strange visions of the undescribed sublime 
conceal in symbols secrets he would learn 
to understand how humans play their roles 
by force of will or predetermined fate, 
though all our hopes converge in global choir 
that shatters illusion of holy right. 

No longer frightened by wild swirl of time, 
that twists our bodies from humans to gods 
trapped in weird fairy tales no one reads, 
he finds bold stubbornness of humble faith 
as gleaming diamond jagged in his heart 
with pain that drives him to transcend his fate. 

Constrained by gravity of spinning Earth, 
that bolts our bodies to change-shifting ground, 
he listens at the broken door of hope 
for wild uncanny voices angels chime 
that knocks his body loose from womb of love 
to wander wordless by the humming lake. 

Beside somnolent lake of whispered lies, 
where iridescent ghosts of long-dead ghosts 
appear from cracked stones of philosophy, 
he swells his heart with breath of honesty 
to fill the timeless void of everywhere 
with lonely wisdom of contingent faith. 

Awake on sea-borne boat of travesty, 
he sails toward somewhere he thinks might be home, 
though childhood meadows vanish in stark mist, 
and gazes deep in waters of the sea 
where shadows of his fears lurk urgently 
as snakes in features of his changeless face. 

Bound by soaring mountains and depthless seas, 
he feels powerless strength of swirling waves 
obstruct his journey to the Promised Land 
though he attends to labor of the heart 
with divine passion of the star-eyed snake 
who seems to know his weirdest memories. 

He is the boatman on wild tides of change, 
alone who wields the oar of guiding truth, 
asserting progress through his ship of state 
past Scylla and Charybdis of despair, 
heart wounded with pain his harsh actions caused, 
till he kneels and weeps on Ithaka shore. 

Zen Flash Of God-Eyes

Zen Flash Of God-Eyes
© Surazeus
2026 07 20

Neglected horror of our fractured world 
conceals strange beauty of the human heart 
with legendary myths of noble gods 
who play with loyal men in games of chess 
till they realize gods they worship are fake, 
no more than mortal men wearing gold masks. 

Vast wilderness of roundness sprawls awake 
inside glass jar of honest arrogance, 
corrupt with greed for loyal followers 
who praise the brave influencer of truth 
with glowing accolades for noble deeds 
attacking hostile keepers of the gate. 

Thick mist of sorrow shrouds stone streets of faith 
where marble temple stands three thousand years 
as haven for lost homeless travelers 
to seek deep wisdom on blank walls of fate, 
grand hall long empty but for wind and rain 
that nurture trees where ancient gods once ruled. 

Entranced by silver essence of the lake, 
I seek bright Zen of vacant nothingness 
within the seething network of my brain 
to free my heart from taut bonds of desire 
that bind wings of my soul with hungry hope 
to understand true nature of the world. 

Immortal wisdom of my mortal being, 
programmed by gene-god of my dreaming brain, 
tricks me to seek salvation of the heart 
in temple floating on high glowing clouds 
where angel-ghosts of people I once knew 
play harps forever in harmonious peace. 

Quiet manifestation of great truth 
appears in flash of light before my eyes 
so I draw power down from swirling clouds 
to writhe in tangled verse of sentences 
that map our journey to the Promised Land 
among ten thousand peaks of glowing eyes. 

Zen flash of god-eyes in my aching heart 
still urges me to follow signless trails 
through endless hills composed of angel skulls 
where I rest weary body of my soul 
in tholos veiled by swirls of apple blooms 
to meditate on how clear water flows. 

Ethereal calm of timeless mountain vale 
inspires my heart with weird sublimity 
while I sip apple cider brewed at dawn 
to meditate on nothingness of life 
the swells my true self huge as thunder clouds 
so I will dissipate in swirls of rain. 

Yet Flowers Still Blossom

Yet Flowers Still Blossom
© Surazeus
2026 07 20

Men fight each other to control the land, 
forming gangs who design weapons of death 
to battle over valleys of deep lakes 
and kill each other over groves of trees, 
building great empires that collapse from greed, 
and yet flowers still blossom from the Earth. 

Men erect walls of stone carved from hard cliffs 
and stand guard at the gates of paradise 
where tyrants proclaim themselves God of Truth 
to keep people obedient to their will 
whom they exploit as slaves to garnish wealth, 
and yet flowers still blossom from the Earth. 

Men dig minerals from caves deep in hills, 
enslaving men convicted of dire crimes 
to slave as the dead in underworld mines, 
extracting gold and jewels from dark gloom 
so kings in palaces wear crowns of power, 
and yet flowers still blossom from the Earth. 

Men abduct beautiful women from homes, 
so other men gather armies of boys 
who battle many years at walls of power, 
killing heroes who defend their homeland 
for they go mad when their weak pride is bruised, 
and yet flowers still blossom from the Earth. 

Men build armies from young orphaned boys, 
training them in hard camps for many years 
till they become elite warriors of pride 
who follow god on horse of divine right 
to invade and colonize distant lands, 
and yet flowers still blossom from the Earth. 

Men fly airplanes in clouds where old gods hide 
and drop bombs on sprawling cities of homes 
to kill millions of people, young and old, 
who cry out for justice to empty skies 
where God of their Fathers sits on fake throne, 
and yet flowers still blossom from the Earth. 

Men connive and plot to attain state power 
then declare their divine right to rule all, 
proclaiming themselves gods in human form, 
but they all grow old to wither and die, 
so other men fight to grasp fallen crowns, 
and yet flowers still blossom from the Earth. 

Men increase wealth with hard work of their hands 
to build safe home where their children grow strong 
who branch out to exploit treasure-rich lands, 
but Death always destroys body and soul 
so other people take the things we make, 
and yet flowers still blossom from the Earth. 

Welcome To My Home

Welcome To My Home
© Surazeus
2026 07 20

Dew drops on tips of grass at dawn gleam gold 
with eyes of angels who gaze in my soul 
with cosmic knowledge of the universe 
that knows the secret name of my Gene-God 
whose vision glows in network of my brain 
with divine consciousness of holy light. 

Toward marble building, built like a Greek temple 
as Athens federal savings and loan bank 
four years before I was born on this Earth, 
I stride at dawn from the parking garage 
to map water and sewer line networks 
that service every house in lush Oconia. 

Dream world of ancient social energy, 
created by sun spider of desire, 
shimmers as web of interactive nodes 
that link each person across our Great Land 
with electric lines on telephone poles 
as cyberspace that reflects our real world. 

While I want to conserve state of his world 
as it exists from centuries of work, 
I hope to develop through careful plans 
complex infrastructure of roads and buildings 
to better manage reproductive needs 
which secures safe space for humans to thrive. 

Outrage explodes in hearts of honest folk 
when greedy oligarchs in distant lands 
invade sovereign lands with gangs of armed boys 
who bomb buildings people built with their hands, 
and kill innocent people with blind hate 
so they can control treasures of rich hills. 

Bodies of families, parents and children, 
killed by bombs of swift planes and rumbling tanks, 
become the soil of Earth on which we walk 
to plant fruit trees in new Garden of Eden 
that flourishes from corpses of the dead 
where we gather to sing victorious hymns. 

Their tears gleam as dew drops on tips of grass 
where eyes of devils glare at me with hate 
so I craft Wand of Wisdom from fruit tree, 
pull Sword of Justice from meteor stone, 
and forge Rifle of Truth from polished steel, 
prepared to defend my land from invaders. 

Zeus tells me I should welcome to my home 
all travelers, pilgrims, and refugees 
as immigrants who seek new land to dwell 
safe from cruel tyrants in castles of power, 
so when Odysseus knocks at my door 
I share my feast to hear his journey tale. 

Fragile Boats Of Hope

Fragile Boats Of Hope
© Surazeus
2026 07 19

The world river of life flows from my heart 
to fill abyss of fear with sea of love 
so we can sail our fragile boats of hope 
across the surging waves of honesty 
home from sacking towers of Ilium 
where trees of truth bloom from corpses of gods. 

The graceful goddess of my consciousness, 
who glides among fruit trees on the broad shore, 
stoops low to scoop with dipper of her heart 
memories humans relinquish in cold tears 
to quench her thirst for feelings we discard 
which swells her heart with love for every soul. 

The full moon floats in branches of tall trees, 
exposed to conscious gaze of my bruised heart 
while blazing with azure uncanniness 
as sacred treasure every human shares, 
while restless ocean waves of ancient hopes 
leave fragments of our dreams on silent beach. 

The psychic refuge of my broken dreams 
blurs pungent feeling from my stage of being 
so wordless thoughts of innocent desire 
ripple silver stipples across my mind 
as eyes through adequate obscurity 
because I suffer sea change in my heart. 

Because that is not what I mean at all, 
I might be missing whatever I am, 
so I declare with certainty of faith 
that I am nobody, and so are you, 
escaping one-eyed monster of despair, 
since now I am not what I am, I think. 

Incompetent to speak of who I am, 
alone in space of timeless solitude, 
I fashion new persona mask to wear 
so I become the person I would be, 
bold shadow slithering swift across the ground 
which measures fragile fullness of my being. 

Each moment I am real in flesh of time 
flares up as match of psychic energy 
transforming me from fish to singing god 
defined by whorl of flashing water flow 
that vibrates at thunderous crack of faith 
from storm cloud rumbling over mountain peaks. 

I rise from Stygian pool of wounded hearts 
when I compose coherent narrative 
from ensemble of social anecdotes, 
recording heroic deeds of dead men 
who programmed how our brains perceive the world 
as forms of atoms molded from ideas. 

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.