Tears Of Fallen Angels

Tears Of Fallen Angels
© Surazeus
2026 10 10

I drink luminous juice of cosmic fruit 
that boosts my mortal soul up to godhood 
which vibrates from frail network of my brain 
till my bones dissipate in swirling waves, 
then I rise dripping from pool of despair, 
soul baptized clean by tears of fallen angels. 

Drenched in electric shadow of desire 
that crackles through frame of my fragile soul, 
I stand amazed before wraith of star words 
who teaches me to sing hymns of respect 
for all the people falling from the sky 
who writhe in sorrow on the broken Earth. 

Enraptured from this mortal frame of flesh 
by sweet angelic voices of the choir, 
which weaves wings on my wounded heart of faith, 
I float up in cathedral of blue ice 
that gleams with starlight of divine insight 
till mute atomic god wakes in my brain. 

So I become bright angel of star eyes 
born from smooth river stone of endless time 
till I wake in my body down on Earth 
where I trudge aching in cold field of mud 
to harvest cabbages in drizzling rain 
for baskets on the splintered cart of hope. 

When God in crystal palace of the clouds 
speaks on the radio with human voice, 
assuring us we will endure this war 
while angels fly on silver wings of faith 
and drop bombs on our humble river homes, 
we clasp our hands and weep in bitter prayer. 

Great city built of stone with bleeding hands 
glistens in ruins from bright exploding bombs, 
so we search rubble of our lost world view 
to find the jeweled crown of divine right 
crumpled under heaps of rage-blasted stone, 
yet I pray to the stern face in gold clouds. 

Dismantled wisdom of aggressive greed 
exposes treasure of our offerings, 
that we paid for the afterlife in Heaven, 
was stored in coffers by grim men in robes 
who buy airplanes and islands in the sea 
where they feast on our noble sacrifice. 

What fragments of lost faith I hope to find 
lie scattered on the broken street of faith, 
so I gather photographs of the dead 
and paste them in world book of memories 
where children read their names with solemn voice 
that frees their ghosts from dreadful tragedy. 

Egg Of The Serpent God

Egg Of The Serpent God
© Surazeus
2026 10 10

Spirit born from egg of the serpent god 
with ten thousand eyes of galactic minds, 
I walk city streets of America 
with ambitious hope of the fallen angel 
to comprehend gears of the human brain 
through dizzy laughter of the black moon ghost. 

Strange ennui of existential sorrow 
grips my heart with anguish of desire 
when I walk past glass doors of shopping stores 
filled with cute trinkets of human concern 
about disease, famine, and holy war 
that obliterate countless souls each year. 

Expanding scope of conscious insight swells 
my self-awareness huge as dinosaurs 
that wandered Earth as gods with tiny brains 
one hundred eighty million years of faith, 
evolving into gray ghosts in spaceships 
who haunt dire memories of our midnight skies. 

When our dark shadows detach from our bodies 
and form glowing spheres of glass that float lightly 
over sea of ink which gods use to write 
emotional contracts between blind lovers, 
I explain why clocks are ticking backwards 
to the old witch wearing red face of Geryon. 

Till the baseball player demands with voice 
of bus engines rumbling on the highway 
that I explain arcane code of weird proverbs 
that bleed from my eyes when I play guitar, 
I wait for Artemis in the train station 
to prove I am brave assassin of faith. 

I keep attempting to assemble right 
immense puzzle of human history, 
but all the pieces depicting great heroes 
and evil tyrants fighting over truth 
scatter from gusts of indifferent wind 
when Boreas chases Phoebe all night. 

After carefully planning twenty years 
plot to assassinate the greedy king, 
Selene finds the most beautiful boy 
standing in her way in the hotel door, 
so she calls Hyperion on the cell phone 
which causes glass cathedral to explode. 

While Apollo in the Museum of Masks 
designs the chemistry textbook with herbs 
and seashells instead of math formulas, 
I gather skulls of children killed by bombs 
and place them on shelves in the grocery store, 
packaged for sale as cookies the rich buy. 

Disaster Of These Times

Disaster Of These Times
© Surazeus
2026 10 09

With serpentine runes of atomic truth, 
I chronicle disaster of these times, 
depicting how King Midas steals and lies 
to wreck democracy with claws of greed, 
so we desert grand city of gold towers 
and cross the waste land without wings of faith. 

With nothing but guitar and book of dreams, 
I chronicle disaster of these times 
in solemn hymns of passionate despair 
that satirize grand heroes of our age 
who prop dictator with his tin-pot hat 
so he can strut and call himself great king. 

With crackling radio in basement den, 
I chronicle disaster of these times 
through frantic cartoons of brave disrespect 
for lords and ladies in the castle court 
who plot to enslave millions of lost souls 
to work for nothing in their factories. 

With magic wand carved from telephone pole, 
I chronicle disaster of these times, 
presenting ancient gods of bogus myths 
as spirits that possess ambitious men 
with poisoned energy of selfish greed 
that cracks foundation of our world empire. 

With oar of wisdom in the boat of dream, 
I chronicle disaster of these times 
through blateration of ephemeral truth 
which I deal with jokes to perendinate 
commission of Death to eradicate 
precious treasure of apricity. 

With laurels Fame shackles around my head, 
I chronicle disaster of these times 
through interlocking formulas of faith 
contrived by preachers to scam humble fools 
who purchase timeshares to the Afterlife 
that they can never use in this sad life. 

With psychic camera of the holy lamb, 
I chronicle disaster of these times 
when I transfer my brain to robot skull 
replacing old withered body of flesh 
with android chassis of smooth polished steel 
so I can rule the world as Machine God. 

With writhing dragon of my honest heart, 
I chronicle disaster of these times 
by dancing wildly in the acid rain 
that swells my sponge brain huge as the White Whale 
so I swim deep in abyss of lost time, 
then lounge relaxed on beach of broken ships. 

Wander With Clumsy Grace

Wander With Clumsy Grace
© Surazeus
2026 10 09

Old woman who lives on the moor alone 
beams her strange face into the mirror mask, 
then turns to look at me with star-black eyes 
so I remember when my soul is born 
from ocean waves at dawn of my Gene Dream 
four hundred million years ago this hour. 

Paralyzed with laughter of crackling ice, 
my bruised heart limps across the frozen field, 
so I become the woman in the house 
watching herself wander with clumsy grace 
beyond fuzzy scope of adoring eyes 
to place wood plate of apples on the stone. 

My heart is not white as the unlit sky 
because the rain-smooth stones refuse to buzz 
when airplanes float above the mindless clouds 
which traps me in cold atmosphere of glass 
till I stand up another thousand times 
and walk through the door of infinite hope. 

Leaves swirl around my feet with playful joy 
so I press my hand on the frozen dirt 
to wonder if the Earth feels my soul warmth 
and wants to speak of ancient moonless truth 
till I become one wheel of the apple cart 
that searches for the words negating grief. 

When she asks me if winter has arrived, 
we wander leafless woods of sleepy faith 
in robes of tender green that keep our minds 
enclosed in social structure of our names, 
since garlands we had woven back in May 
now wither with transparency of hope. 

Our eyes become entangled in desire 
as flashing magnets of conceptual love 
when we embrace with passionate despair 
to generate new life before we die 
or savor pleasure of this transient life 
because our bodies glow with divine light. 

Discarding fractured puzzles of the past, 
framed by romantic gestures of respect, 
we search for what world view of holy love 
could replace deconstructed fantasies 
which once sustained our nation through world wars 
because we built empire on privilege. 

If we escape dim shadows of our fear 
to give our bodies with calm selfless love, 
we might rise up reborn from graves of books 
to see strange beauty in this broken world 
where wounded hearts beam light of fierce desire 
to taste electric wisdom of the rain. 

Unclock Of Atomic Fate

Unclock Of Atomic Fate
© Surazeus
2026 10 09

While Rapunzel in glass tower of mirrors 
calls to the angel falling from the sky, 
Gawain leaps on meaningless legs of love 
to catch the neutered wolf of Arkansas 
because this life is still unbearable 
for children on the Dnipro River shore. 

Still clutching unclock of atomic fate, 
Rapunzel evades Death for many years 
while dancing awkward ballet gracefully 
in supple swirls of humble hurricane 
which hopes to tend flowers of holy faith 
that bloom from corpses of forgotten gods. 

Alert to strict analysis of waves, 
Rapunzel wonders why oceans of faith 
leave her soul stranded in the greenless room 
with phone of supernatural intelligence 
while she waits for messiah of world peace 
who never returns from the lonely moon. 

Whenever Rapunzel tells her nine sons 
to scorn the casual randomness of death, 
they play game of baseball with the Muses 
in the long-neglected graveyard of kings 
who rise as zombies on election night 
since Lucifer campaigns for President. 

When Apollo, eating burgers and fries 
at the Gearshift Grille on Route Sixty-Six, 
calls Rapunzel with the news that she won 
the Nobody Prize of World Literature, 
she tells him she is singing with the wind 
while wandering hills of Iceland before dawn. 

Clutching marble face of Endymion, 
Rapunzel kisses him with ardent lust, 
and whispers she will steal him from that witch, 
Selene, runway model at the Louvre, 
then removes glass mask of her personhood 
so tender shoots sprout with greenness of love. 

While we are young and brimming with desire, 
we make love with the stranger in the woods 
and generate wild children of the heath 
who build great empires with machines of grief, 
but, Rapunzel grins at Endymion, 
we still die and dissolve to swirls of dust. 

As the world law-enforcement officer, 
Rapunzel prosecutes in Justice Court 
brute thief who dismantles democracy 
when he demands the Laurels of World Peace, 
arrested by Gawain on Christmas Eve, 
then she lies down by the ocean to die. 

Godness Of The Empty Space

Godness Of The Empty Space
© Surazeus
2026 10 08

My heart is withness of the empty space 
that binds our distances in spiral thought 
based on miniscule ecstasy of love 
flashing inside our closed eyes with strange luck 
at randomness of fame that curses fools 
who chase elusive butterfly of faith. 

Transformed by notness of the empty space 
expanding endless books of fairy tales, 
redesigned as sacred stories of faith 
that guide how we adjust our focused fear 
contrary to completeness of dire need, 
I hear Death object to thrust of desire. 

My brain is forthness of the empty space, 
woven by assertive fractions of light 
that pulse with psychic energy of waves 
which toss my fragile body on the beach 
so I attempt to stand straight at the sky 
of dizzy upside backward till I laugh. 

Through intense thingness of the empty space 
I try to explain twisted differences 
between bittersweet moments of regret 
for choosing where to go at flash of dawn 
that leaves me stranded in the somewhere else 
if time tricks me to tell you how I feel. 

Remembered dreamness of the empty space 
renders my face invisible to Death 
who wanders everywhere in swirls of snow 
to edge of eternity where ghosts build 
house of memories that steals my true name 
because I believe in the endless rain. 

Cherished by startness of the empty space 
for vast imperfectness of ardent play, 
I wear faces sharp as knives children sell 
for boxes of fractured gods who require 
pain of sorrowful truth to resurrect 
fictional characters from holy books. 

Entrapped by calmness of the empty space, 
I stumble perilously happy through Hell 
to follow laughing horse with clockwork eyes 
who gives me crystal orange of irony 
so I may understand how she loves me 
more as we grow old by the willow tree. 

Pregnant with Godness of the empty space, 
I hang nine days and nights from the phone pole 
because my brain is linked by psychic wires 
to weird internet of the world wide web 
so I channel prophecies of Star Wraith 
which disassembles puzzle of the brain. 

Formulas Of Wrong Think

Formulas Of Wrong Think
© Surazeus
2026 10 08

Obsessed with trite formulas of Wrong Think, 
I uncreate myself with every song 
I shout into the void of everywhere, 
when I dismantle and interrogate 
illusions of myself as normal being 
I forge as shield against absurdity. 

Helenus tells every person he meets 
along the winding road of anywhere 
that he was born in grand towers of Troy 
before they fell from market games of greed, 
but he was born in some small lonely town 
in mercurial backwoods of Oregon. 

Learning to play guitar when he is twelve, 
Helenus busks in the Pretty How Town 
where up so floating bells corrupt the clown 
who writes in anguish of electric wires, 
composing hymns sung by cathedral choirs 
when his body twirls up to the glass moon. 

Shocked by disturbance in the psychic force, 
as if millions of voices cried at once 
than huffed into silence of the Soul Source 
that blows soft as the wind in willow leaves 
where the first mother of mankind still grieves, 
Helenus plays chess with Death on the beach. 

Concerned about formulas of Wrong Think 
that angels use to calculate our fate, 
I recreate my body from weird genes 
entangled by ancestral memories 
that program how my brain perceives the world 
and tricks me into playing the cosmic herald. 

Helenus keeps his fraught relationship 
with his mother secret from the tabloids 
who invent new strange American myths 
based on the fabulous life of the fool 
who proclaims himself Emperor of Earth, 
not knowing he is our psychotic tool. 

Accepting award for weird spells of faith 
he conjures from grave of the holy seer, 
Helenus reigns as wise Asterion 
in Anglonesium, New Parthenon 
as capitol for Empire of Anglonesia 
composed of Zarathia, Gothinia, and Russia. 

Inspired by weird formulas of Wrong Think, 
I sing with secret voice of everyone 
to play eccentric role of Lucifer 
by bearing sacred Lamp of Liberty 
while writing name of every human soul 
in epic poem as Tellurian Testament. 

Human Face Of Geryon

Human Face Of Geryon
© Surazeus
2026 10 08

We cannot fear ambition of the heart 
to transcend sorrow of soul-twisting pain 
till we design new myth-contriving chart 
that guides our leap through time portal of rain, 
so we walk fields of lush Elysium 
with noble vision of delirium. 

Though not as brave is honest Heracles, 
new-born as his contemporary clone, 
I face the screaming ghost with psychic keys 
who wears the human face of Geryon 
because I want to know the arcane truth 
that motivates reign of messiah sleuth. 

I climb three steps to Heaven before dawn 
to measure our indifferent universe 
where I meet Pegasus on White House lawn 
eating apples from Medusa the Nurse 
who asks me if I know the Golden Way 
that binds our lonely hearts in fertile play. 

While crossing bleak waste land of Libya, 
I throw sharp raven quill at Helios 
who gives me Holy Grail of Sylvia, 
then asks me of I know Prometheus, 
but I just want to find the Promised Land 
where Fortune doles fate with her Red Right Hand. 

When Norax, son of Hermes, calls my name 
with lunar melody through secret code, 
I climb Parnassus to hex curse of fame, 
but find Lyre of Hermes on signless road, 
so I sing romantic tunes of blind faith 
to woo humble daughter of the Star Wraith. 

After I kill cruel giant Geryon 
in battle against tyranny of greed, 
I build with laughter of Hyperion 
light house tower on cracked skull of his need 
from which I rule world empire of free will 
named Anglonesia for the Wisdom Hill. 

While sailing down the River Phlegethon 
to find apple garden in Tartarus, 
I find shy Erytheia on the phone 
arguing with the architect Sisyphus 
about reconstructing the Parthenon 
where I will rule Earth as Asterion. 

When I wake at dawn from weird fantasy 
that I wear human face of Geryon 
with solemn quest to map the galaxy, 
I play my role based on criterion 
that I am temporary soul of light 
conscious of its God Self in cosmic night. 

New Truth In Byzantium

New Truth In Byzantium
© Surazeus
2026 10 07

Since I find new truth in Byzantium 
in scrappy gardens of the laughing skull, 
I flirt with Death who smiles at me with eyes 
that mirror galaxies of flashing stars 
to cherish virtue of pretentious faith 
that helps me translate water song of love. 

If I should recognize my holy ghost 
who drifts among old apple trees of fate, 
I may learn secret of Byzantium 
concealed in cedar box with golden lock 
that gleams ephemeral as fragrant joy 
my love exudes while lounging by the pool. 

To measure gravity of drifting clouds 
that veil swift airplane with projective voice, 
I stand on glistening bridge of evermore 
that spans abyss of swirling arrogance 
as proof I must purchase right to exist 
from every stranger I may never meet. 

Thus I cast victimhood into the trash 
because I want to eat the shepherd pie 
while showing constellations to the child 
who wonders at the story of the snake 
who transforms into queen of bubbling wells 
because I sing on moonless summer nights. 

Entranced by how cicadas sing of light 
beneath the sprawling stars of honesty, 
I read strange omen in the eagle flight 
about the guardian of the apple tree 
who builds another bank beside the lake 
and offers loans to farmers in the dell. 

Though I have traveled far around the world 
with wings of angels tucked into my pack, 
I purchase jar of honey, and blue cheese, 
at small family store by the river bridge, 
then give my voice to stranger at the door 
who gives me book of grief to keep the score. 

Reprising sacred role of global seer, 
which I perform on stage of tragedy, 
I type strange story of the hungry girl 
who walks across the field of screaming trees 
so I can understand her bitter words 
when she gives me egg of the serpent god. 

Carving spell of wisdom with demon bone 
in runes on Emerald Tablet of Untime, 
I channel energy of my brain soul 
to wake Star Ghost of Lake Ontario 
who asks me with flirtatious grin of hope 
about truth I found in Byzantium. 

Church Of Bitter Prayer

Church Of Bitter Prayer
© Surazeus
2026 10 07

Trapped by sharp lethargy of innocence, 
we drift the midnight sidewalk of desire 
to find the purple haze of shocking truth 
that veils our long-healed hearts with nonchalance 
through incoherent laughter of sad faith 
that we lose our souls in the photo booth. 

Strange flower on the roadless mountain slope 
gleams in electric smile of bitter ghosts 
whose voices taste like silver light of dawn 
despite confusing absence of jasmine 
crushed by careless joy of city car tires 
that glisten in the rain of reptile faith. 

No one will ever see ghost of my being 
sitting on roof of the haunted hotel, 
because I twang decisive nerves of steel 
when death employs belligerent respect 
while driving old truck on the dusty road 
far past the last gas station of fooled hearts. 

Too lonesome for the chance to cry for real 
in performative display of victimhood, 
I sing with angels on the radio 
about the true love I left back in town 
who may wonder if I am still alive 
somewhere outside the church of bitter prayer. 

I refuse to pay the cost of wild joy 
while driving nowhere on the lost highway, 
since time cannot undo my noble deeds 
protecting women from aggressive men 
who leave me bruised and beaten on the ground 
long enough for her to fly up to Heaven. 

Though I love the land where I was born, 
and grew up running in lush river vales, 
I journey to escape liars and thieves 
who figured out how to steal all my land, 
and build another home far from my home 
that shelters children I tend with calm care. 

I hold this world together with strange words 
though the mountains of my youth call my name, 
because I scatter prayers on rancid soil 
that redesign wild spirit of my flesh 
so I become another human being 
by wearing mask of a long-forgotten god. 

Because I catch flame in the ether zone 
while soaring on fear-fueled Icarian wings, 
my words become the hex of secret truth 
that breaks hard walls in church of bitter prayer 
so we treasure our darling thoughts of hope 
and frame them with theology of growth. 

Live Equally With Faith

Live Equally With Faith
© Surazeus
2026 10 07

Sunk in dire gloom of her brave misery, 
Blathnaid lifts heavy sorrow of her head 
to stare bleak-eyed at meadow of bright flowers 
where bodies of young men clutching cracked spears 
still groan in agony of painful death 
till eerie silence shudders in soft breeze. 

When she finds the lyre that Achilles stole 
from Eetion, father of Andromache, 
Blathnaid nestles small curved-wood instrument 
on her lap, like mothers cradles newborns 
to suckle them with milk, and strums taut strings 
that vibrate with elegy of despair. 

Failing to find words that clearly express 
anguish of her heart at death of young men 
who could have lived unremarkable lives 
with loving wives while raising happy children, 
Blathnaid shrieks at corrupt justice of Heaven 
till her body shakes uncontrollably. 

Why would you die for some young mortal man, 
Blathnaid howls at corpses with trembling voice, 
to crown him leader of our hill-wild tribes 
because his grandfather once wore gold crown 
while claiming authority from High Heaven, 
instead of dwelling in your own safe homes? 

Though your cowardly king has quickly fled 
over the sea to Skye in boat of fear, 
Blathnaid caresses blank face as she sobs, 
I have remained with fate-abandoned corpses 
to lament bitter loss of your brave souls 
that could have brightened our land with joy. 

Why have the tribes of men throughout all time, 
in every land around our roomy world, 
Blathnaid sighs as she buries more dead soldiers, 
always chosen to crown the strongest man 
as leader who enforces tribal laws 
and orchestrates their wars to conquer land? 

Why can men not live equally with faith 
as colleagues sharing rich communal space, 
Blathnaid glares at the fallen crown of gems, 
instead of building hierarchical states 
that allow managers to exploit workers 
then living on wealth they extract from slaves? 

Heart purged of anguish at loss of brave men 
from hot tears that cleanse their faces of blood, 
Blathnaid strums long-lost lyre of Mercury 
as she journeys in the Scottish highlands, 
and sings of boys who fought with bravery 
in every feasting hall where people weep. 

Mute Book Of Lies

Mute Book Of Lies
© Surazeus
2026 10 06

If my soul gets trapped by mute book of lies, 
because my heart is lured by promises 
of awards and acclaim for dreams I weave 
from tangled memories of nameless souls, 
I shall untwist false concept of dream time 
to map my progress through the Otherworld. 

Each angel who escapes mute book of lies 
transforms into some normal human being 
who goes about the routine of their life, 
performing rote roles expected of them 
by social rules that obligate success, 
though most of us manage with hidden flaws. 

Gods of myths labeled in mute book of lies 
are based on mortal humans who once lived 
long ago in swirling mists of untime 
whose valorous deeds glamorize their souls 
so they become concepts of noble deeds 
that provide templates for how we behave. 

Writhing with passion from mute book of lies, 
Helios races the chariot of fire 
across the crystal highway of the sky 
to conquer the world with glorious deeds, 
defeating tyrants so people live free 
to build new world empire of equal rights. 

Stumbling through doors to leave mute book of lies, 
I stand on the road of Forever Now 
and ask myself where I should go from here 
to maintain balance of my eager heart 
so we can stay together till we die 
because we are flowers in field of fate. 

Sailing on the flood from mute book of lies 
in fragile boat of my body-bound soul, 
I feel my brain pulse with aggressive lust, 
programmed by millions of ancestral lives 
regenerating souls life after life, 
so I sway entranced in the midnight mist. 

Falling forever in mute book of lies 
that gives me angel wings like Icarus, 
I ride the bus each dawn to work all day 
assembling radios in the factory, 
while I dream of being a famous singer, 
then ride home to eat pizza at midnight. 

Reborn as Star God from mute book of lies, 
I type magic spells on computer screen 
so they flutter fragile butterfly wings 
and fly to flower-hearts of random strangers 
to sprinkle fairy dust into their eyes 
so they wander with me in Wonderland. 

Mindless Mirror Of Infinity

Mindless Mirror Of Infinity
© Surazeus
2026 10 06

My heart becomes raven of light each time 
Orpheus takes me to the Otherworld 
because snowflakes are laughter of the sun 
that photograph my soul with fractured eyes, 
time unaware of astronauts in boats 
which sail across the mirror of my mind. 

Quick butterflies of memories seem to flock 
around bookshelves of stories never read 
by children who panic at falling planes, 
despite how soon the monster of the moon 
sells our strange secrets to the holy fool 
because the Self is illusion of words. 

Though clocks in trunks of oaks beside the lake 
remember why my Dream Body was born 
at this complex age, on this crowded globe 
of all the planets in the universe, 
I choose to redesign my character 
based on flight of the raven in my heart. 

Surprised by sense of wonder in my heart 
that wakes me from strange dream of broken trees, 
I gather photos scattered on the grass 
and arrange them in frames on temple walls 
to prove my right to breathe air of the sky 
with humble glamor of the nameless ghost. 

Though most believe the universe is made 
by conscious force of psychic energy 
that conjures life on planets of bright suns, 
others believe through formulas of faith 
that we project our sense of consciousness 
at mindless mirror of infinity. 

Preserved by silence of the singing lake, 
who seems to know how I should never feel, 
I focus sharp attention of my mind 
on how soft undulating curves of time 
reveal essential nature of the heart 
so I can prove my brave sincerity. 

Though words I speak become white butterflies 
that flutter far into fate-mirrored sky, 
I hold the stone that streaked in blaze of light 
from mindless mirror of infinity 
to show the secret face behind my face 
which I wear to mask passionate respect. 

Lost in Somewhere City of the Weird Earth, 
alone in endless maze of numbered homes, 
I ponder strictness of the asphalt road 
that frames writhing lawns of yellow grass 
because I am the raven who eats words 
each time I return from the Otherworld. 

Cherubic Wings Of Innocence

Cherubic Wings Of Innocence
© Surazeus
2026 10 06

Untwisting feelings of romantic hope 
to disengage my body from desire, 
I spread cherubic wings of innocence 
to float as light above chaotic seas, 
then sing celestial thoughts of broken stones 
from which spring children of the hungry stars. 

Shy Carla strolls the hard sidewalk at dawn 
past willow threes that paint the lonely sky 
with all the rainbow colors of the wind, 
then opens her small gift shop by the park 
and smiles at ding of the bell on the door, 
then turns on computers, and pets the cat. 

Time-weaving clocks with face of the Green Man 
watch us from trunks of oaks in shadowed woods 
where angels wrestle devils for our hearts, 
but dissipate in mist from silver ponds 
because illusions vanish in sunlight 
which conjures virtual model of the Earth. 

Yet Carla stocking cards in metal shelves 
considers problem of evil that forms 
foundation for international law 
by which leaders of nations in gray suits 
play chess games to control our mortal souls 
with systemic framework of social power. 

Old bearded man, who stares at birthday card 
that shows young lovers swinging by a pond, 
weeps with quiet anguish, then buys the card, 
explaining that he leaves one by her grave 
though rain always dissolves it into grass 
because her ghost follows him everywhere. 

If we could dismantle male privilege 
where men are never punished for vile crimes 
in vain attempts to control minds of women, 
Carla ponders while ringing up new sale 
for Beatrice purchasing pen with pink ink, 
we could make life safer for young girls. 

Cars, forged from steel of fallen meteors, 
which Arthur used to pull sword from the stone, 
float past her gift shop on angelic wings 
of gleaming sunlight that sparks in her heart 
compassion for all the people of Earth 
who suffer and die in stark misery. 

Locking her shop after sunset flames fade 
to darkness tainted orange by mute streetlamps, 
Carla stops by pond in the city park 
and stares at face of Artemis she wears, 
that floats into the sky on red swan wings 
to sleep in her house on the crystal moon. 

Woods Of My Aching Heart

Woods Of My Aching Heart
© Surazeus
2026 10 05

What shining spirit of justice and order 
may power my subjection of despair, 
Shamash defeating Humbaba with light, 
Apollo vanquishing Python with wisdom, 
Jesus overcoming Satan with love, 
or Beowulf battling Grendel with honor? 

What dark obscure woods of my aching heart 
must I explore with lamp of timeless faith, 
though sun-gilded tears may stream down my face, 
strange paradise of uncivilized passion 
entrapping me in labyrinth of despair, 
till I face snake-haired monster of blind lust? 

If monstrous demon of my wounded heart 
howls at my face with mocking disrespect, 
then cracks the mountain of the rumbling world 
by smacking my frail soul against the Earth, 
will I wake roaring flame of innocence 
to rise on wings and fight my hungry greed? 

If primal nature of my monkey soul 
is severed from angelic glow of faith 
that beams from spinning iron core of Earth, 
will I be baptized in pool of desire 
and cleansed of wolfish rage inside my heart 
by tender compassion of my sweet bride? 

Once I rise tall from muck of psychic birth 
and transcend monstrous passion of my heart 
to confirm my soul through strict self-control, 
will I evolve from mad demon of Hell 
to transform through creative offering 
to wise angel of Heaven with eight wings? 

Once Ishtar offers me her fertile heart 
in marriage that combines body and soul, 
and asks me with seductive voice of trust 
to fertilize her with gift of my fruits, 
as Eve ate Apple to generate life, 
will I design new world view for mankind? 

Where will I wander to find nameless ghost 
who falls in bottomless abyss of death 
after I slay great bull of the Sun God 
and feast on steaks I roast on flame of faith, 
to weep for Lycidas and Adonais 
while lost in endless labyrinth of Hell? 

Where will I build the house of seven doors, 
constructing wall with thirty-three watch towers, 
and plant Garden of Eden to raise children, 
when the lightning storm destroys it with flood 
that demolishes everything I make, 
so I sing alone on the river shore? 

Godless Void Of Hope

Godless Void Of Hope
© Surazeus
2026 10 05

Wise Aten beams my soul with hands of light 
so I live and die in dream of Earth 
with laughter of the ancient deathless stars 
beaming through atoms of my fragile flesh 
which animate my progress till I die 
when I stare in the godless void of hope. 

Clever Tammuz weaves my spirit from wool 
so I climb broad stairs up high ziggurat 
to bring gifts of my crafting hands with love 
to temple where Inanna brews sweet wine 
which I drink as we kiss in gold moonlight 
when I laugh in the godless void of hope. 

Brave Adonis bakes my body from wheat 
so I bear brass plate with hot loaves of bread 
for everyone on broad ziggurat steps 
may eat the sacred body of the Earth 
while Ishtar sings Creation of the World 
when I shout in the godless void of hope. 

Bold Adam breathes life in my apple heart 
so I tame serpent writhing in the tree 
then people buy apple pies from my cart 
while I perform in market maze of want 
below ziggurat where Asherah sings 
when I leap in the godless void of hope. 

Shrewd Jehovah molds my torso from fish 
so I dive deep in ocean of despair 
to find the herb of youth Gilgamesh lost 
then wander beach to hut where Shamhat sings 
who teaches me to spark life in her heart 
when I swim in the godless void of hope. 

Honest Jesus twists my arms into wings 
so I run swift in forest of swift harts 
to hunt with Artemis in moonlit groves 
where we twang strings of bows with dauntless joy 
to feel our bodies pulsing with desire 
when I soar in the godless void of hope. 

Lithe Lucifer forges my brain from gold 
so I map history of humanity 
on time-animated globe that depicts 
evolution of man from Fish to God 
on endless quest to find the Promised Land 
when I dance in the godless void of hope. 

Audacious Odin carves my name in runes 
that writhe with serpentine intelligence 
in ghost-engendering well of Melusine 
who teaches me to compose tales of faith 
that show how women raise children with love 
when I sing in the godless void of hope. 

Reconnect With Mother Sea

Reconnect With Mother Sea
© Surazeus
2026 10 05

Because the music of the sea knows me, 
I float on celestial breath of the mind 
to interact with humans in the world 
who float on their own music of the sea, 
for we all sing in harmony with hope 
that leaves us stranded on the sunlit beach. 

Expanding beyond scale of holy thoughts 
with every wave that flows onto the beach, 
my mind considers why we suffer pain 
that drives us to consume beasts of the sea 
whose spirits vibrate energy of hope 
which animates our journey to the light. 

Since blazing power of relentless light 
blasts my frail soul with divine energy, 
I follow flashing river through steep hills, 
ascending to broad meadow of soft flowers 
that dance with delicate grace of desire 
in cool breeze that caresses me with hope. 

I dwell ten thousand years in field of flowers 
between the sloshed wave and the jagged peak, 
safe in fertile haven of Middle-Earth, 
tending herds of sheep, and fields of gold wheat, 
through countless generations of my soul 
reborn as me with each new frame of flesh. 

Now I work as mechanic every day, 
fixing engines of cars in large garage 
along street of businesses and banks 
where cars and people glide by every hour, 
yet memory of that meadow by the sea 
frames how I function in daily routines. 

Attention focused on tubes, wires, and gears, 
I maintain process of physical change 
to manage function of the world machine 
powered by waves that still wash on the beach 
where I take my wife and kids on weekends 
to reconnect our hearts with Mother Sea. 

We hike in meadow where soft flowers bloom, 
and listen to birds chirp in florid trees 
who taught us how to speak words of our thoughts, 
then fish at lake where our ancestors lived, 
to eat roast fish and sing old tribal songs 
around bright campfire under sparkling stars. 

I hope we can maintain this balanced life 
of working in the corporate urban zone 
to maintain world food-production machine 
while seeking recreation in lush Nature 
where we can reconnect with Mother Sea 
whose song rejuvenates our wave-born souls. 

Yet Still I Row My Boat

Yet Still I Row My Boat
© Surazeus
2026 10 04

Glass bridge of laughter questions Game of If 
where nameless people wander distant shores 
with plans to steal new souls from grocery stores 
who vanish in strict mirror of the cliff, 
yet still I row my boat past paradise 
because important things should have no price. 

Electric lightbulb of the smiling sun 
sends garbage trucks to take lost memories 
discarded by housewives with broken keys 
who seek salvation of the holy gun, 
yet still I row my boat past Eden tress 
where angels give math books to chimpanzees. 

Life is the angel wearing mirror mask 
to work for advertising companies 
with clients selling psychic clarities 
to robots who refuse to do the task, 
yet still I row my boat past libraries 
where demons work for social charities. 

Brave butterflies of pencils with nine brains 
flock merrily around sly Mercury 
who teaches jesters art of jollity 
who prance at midnight in honey-gold rains, 
yet still I row my boat past empty church 
where Cinderella continues vain search. 

Trapped by strict duties of proud happiness, 
where horses of the king eat grass of gold, 
my father shows me how to dream-unfold 
airplane wings above Sea of Nothingness, 
yet still I row my boat past apple groves 
where wives of senators slave at hot stoves. 

Despite sincerity of obvious love 
that cripples crow of Heaven with false faith, 
I formulate how God is stellar wraith 
that conjures worlds with psychometric shove, 
yet still I row my boat past matrix schools 
to learn how primates invent farming tools. 

Since fatal geographies of state power 
provide framework for tyrants to play god, 
brave blacksmiths disarticulate the fraud 
with guidance from Rapunzel in her tower, 
yet still I row my boat past bombed-out homes 
to watch gods wrestle in glass thunder domes. 

Conceptual language of the creditor 
reframes the meaning of life we employ 
to reconstruct the sacred halls of Troy 
based on project designed by Lucifer, 
yet still I row my boat past gates of Hell 
to gather dream runes from the serpent well. 

Restore Greatness Of America

Restore Greatness Of America
© Surazeus
2026 10 04

If I should paint the wide subversive sky 
true color of your heart when we first meet, 
the people of the world might analyze 
sufficient romance of my sacrifice 
against synopsis of the seminar 
to judge my brave sincerity of love. 

If I should find crippled crow of my heart 
hopping frantically across the wet lawn, 
the angels of the mountain might require 
visual conformation of my despair 
revealed by neon sign of vacancy 
that flashes intermittently till dawn. 

If I should hear the sharp objective cry 
of morbid nurses in the bitter wind, 
the devils in cathedrals might expect 
guards at the gate of Hell to optimize 
nutritious medicine of martial law 
that traps us in Nirvana after all. 

If I should see the glowing Face of God 
that beams from center of the universe, 
the grim professors might demand I write 
my doctoral thesis about poverty 
that traps the talented in menial jobs 
while mediocre fools run governments. 

If I should write the holy manuscript 
that prophesies new empire of the lost, 
the tongueless preachers might demand I burn 
idols of heroes from religious tales 
to cleanse the sanctuary of the lamb 
who rules through journalist integrity. 

If I should map whole history of the Earth 
that details how great empires rise and fall, 
the housewives in schools might demand I play 
games with children of crippled warriors 
who volunteer to count the treasury 
when priests sell them shares to the Afterlife. 

If I should decree new socialist creed 
to restore greatness of America, 
the lawyers in banks might demand I steal 
celestial wings of flight from Icarus 
so they can storm Heaven in holy coup 
to crown shy Jesus Emperor of Earth. 

If I should play role of messiah sleuth 
through rational performance of my heart, 
the oligarchs might demand I program 
new world view that excludes divinities 
to build from ruins of America 
new state based on equal rights in one law. 

Church Of Broken Clocks

Church Of Broken Clocks
© Surazeus
2026 10 04

Because stars shine indifferent to us, 
not knowing we exist so far away 
on small fragile globe of shuddering water, 
I watch my children play in the back yard 
with joyful laughter of ambitious hope 
that they will rule their own nations one day. 

Obsession of the water-shining stone 
that glistens in the front yard of my home 
inspires me to admire the humble soul 
who rises up from crowd of frantic fear 
to rule the nation accidentally 
when wild waves of change sweep them into power. 

Though names and faces of the global dead 
are forgotten in the spinning of time, 
we merge them all into mythical gods 
who simplify their spirits on one trope 
which preserves their general character 
while their details dissipate in the wind. 

Because the eyeless ghost of my sponge brain 
keeps slipping back and forth in stream of time, 
soaring on wings I stole from Icarus, 
the random story of my awkward life 
becomes the palimpsest of future heroes 
who follow my map through the labyrinth. 

Each day that I grow older than the moon 
I store more information about Earth 
through grand encyclopedia of the brain 
in tales about great empires of the land 
and all the haughty kings who ruled their lives, 
then faded to paintings in history books. 

Since sparrows on statues of generals 
express opinions about their noble deeds, 
we hairless monkeys hide in libraries 
to prove we are wingless angels of time 
blessed to thrive on Earth millions of years more 
since we crawled dripping from the wordless sea. 

Searching for the one book that reveals truth 
in library of human memory, 
I row my boat on river of world dream 
to find the secret island of fruit trees 
where messiah sleuth plots world revolution 
that will unite all nations in one game. 

While spiders spin world matrix of our minds 
we gather in the church of broken clocks 
to decipher riddles from arcane code 
that explain the nature of human greed 
till prophets teach us to embrace nonbeing 
though we make mindless gods from random stars.