Every God In Global Myths

Every God In Global Myths
© Surazeus
2026 09 16

So I believe in prophets, but not gods, 
for I respect those mortal human beings 
whose suffering sparked great visions in their hearts 
to speak with courage against evil kings 
and lead their people to the Promised Land, 
providing framework to live better lives. 

Yet I love every god in every myth 
worshipped by people in religious cults 
for they were once mortal humans like me 
who performed such deeds of dramatic force, 
defending their tribe against hostile greed, 
that concept of their soul still glows alive. 

Though their mortal bodies of bones and flesh, 
fueled by passionate blood of honest faith, 
have crumbled into dust centuries ago, 
grand spirit of their performance remains 
as vivid glow of light before our eyes 
so they guide how we live our normal days. 

Gods are immortal concepts in our minds 
rather than real entities in the world 
who glow as concepts of socialized tropes 
that embody morals we value most 
because dramatic actions of their hearts 
remain imprinted on collective minds. 

So I believe in mortal human beings 
who wake from paralysis of despair 
and transcend suffering with intense desire 
to organize their people with bright goal, 
through strict discipline of obedient faith, 
to build paradise in waste land of fear. 

No supernatural beings, with total power 
to control flow of material energy 
as mental thoughts in words of magic spells, 
exist beyond bounds of limited shape 
that defines bodies which conjure our souls, 
nor can they resurrect the dead to life. 

I value every god in global myths 
as memories of great humans who once lived, 
so they all shine as idols of success 
in star-domed Pantheon of my world religion, 
each one important node of psychic truth 
that shines on stage of our world theater. 

Gods, kings, warriors, prophets, seers, and scribes 
all manifest our global institute 
of storytelling that preserves in myth 
productive actions of those mortal souls 
whom we adore as gods of human lore, 
great heroes for Astarianity. 

Judge Throne Of The Woke

Judge Throne Of The Woke
© Surazeus
2026 09 16

Electric stars crawl spider-quick as words 
from mud-paged books of mesmerizing tunes 
toads hum from pulsing caves of human hearts, 
so I forge diamond key of honest codes 
from time-stretched urgency of rolling stones 
when we sail lake of glass in righteous boats. 

Star angels wearing masks of children play 
hide and seek with gold tyrannical idols 
that float above roofs of suburban homes 
where blind gods mold obedient wives from clay 
then send their brave sons with religious rifles 
to conquer the world with capitalist memes. 

Ignoring signs to make himself seem cool, 
Gabriel gives sinners in Hell persimmons 
to understand the nonchalance of love 
that ploys each human being as useful tool 
through strategic tactic of mental summons 
to be vulnerable in the crystal cave. 

I am only conscious in my own head 
so I will never know what people think 
with brave courtesy to the vigilant, 
yet I hide secret scrolls in fresh-baked bread 
with prophecies about the skating rink 
where tyranny is crippled by the diligent. 

Ten million ghosts, who purchase their dream fate, 
bathe in sparkling pool to absolve the bitter 
that lures their journey on the golden lane 
till they arrive in Heaven where they float 
in white robes, since the trumpet song is better 
than glowing jewels beeping in my brain. 

Bright angels pluck ripe apples from the tree 
where humble swans float on the star-eyed lake 
among domed temples on lush hills of grass 
while angels feast at table of the free 
where Jesus reigns on judge throne of the woke, 
in heavenly tableau behind clean glass. 

She almost understands how rivers flow, 
so Eve carves boat of wisdom from pine wood 
and takes me sailing to Elysian fields 
while I explain cartographic work flow 
which I employ to map dream of our world 
in virtual model mirrored on brass shields. 

Reborn as angel on this cluttered globe, 
I ponder strangeness of the conscious brain 
that gleams with multifaceted aspects 
complex as diamond that refracts soul strobe 
which beams from Cosmic Eye through atom rain 
since Death translates our bodies to concepts. 

Angels Of The Apple Moon

Angels Of The Apple Moon
© Surazeus
2026 09 16

Because my ancestors wake in my brain 
and show me dreams of their experiences, 
I learn to grieve for their strife to survive 
and rejoice when they transcend weaknesses, 
so the wolf transforms to bride of my hearth 
who shows me how to love the apple moon. 

Though eerie silver light of mindless eyes 
dreams me through tangled branches of old trees, 
I morph instinctive howl of anguished rage 
to joyful ritual of collective grief, 
so through the psychic switchboard of our hearts 
we call wild angels of the apple moon. 

Gathered together on the star-lake shore, 
we cultivate weird silence of stone faith 
while we reflect on how we interact 
through collective awakening from fear 
to sing through water language of the heart 
wild laughter we drink from the apple moon. 

Though we are blind from blazing words in books, 
that veil our eyes to state of our real world, 
we navigate its shadowy terrain 
with fantasies our lost ancestors mapped, 
till we pause on the precipice of fate 
to hear new riddle of the apple moon. 

Huge jagged mountain of dim memories 
traps wild demonic energy of love 
that whispers secrets in electric trees 
who seem to know why we still search for peace 
though pages of our books are scattered far 
as seeds that sprout gods on the apple moon. 

Since we are beetles on vast trees of time, 
and crickets singing by deep lakes of souls, 
we hurl our spirits at blind light of God, 
then float of waves of childhood with new hope, 
reborn from mothers and fathers of fate 
who teach us wisdom of the apple moon. 

Each day we rise with rhythm of the wind, 
and flow with laughter of the water stream 
while strolling in vast woods where demons lurk, 
then listen to bright angels sing in halls 
about fragile beauty of transient lives 
because we vanish in the apple moon. 

Blind clouds where no gods control human fate 
break open hearts of anguish to release 
refreshing torrents of rain that revive 
lush garden of truth from waste land of lies 
so we become the ancestors who sing 
stories to children of the apple moon. 

Whispering Neon Jellyfish

Whispering Neon Jellyfish
© Surazeus
2026 09 15

Kathy decides not to do the fun things, 
so she watches fish swim through deep canal, 
then pushes doorbell as signal of hope 
for the blind angel to open the lock 
which allows demons of despair to pass through, 
because she sends potatoes in the mail. 

Every time email appears on the screen, 
Kathy meows so the whole office hears, 
but they become pieces on the chess board 
in her conceptual game of catch the cat 
as shadow lurking on the melting wall, 
three times before the clock smiles not at her. 

Wrapping her face in the silk pillow case, 
Kathy rides the horse with thousand-foot legs, 
and kisses Jesus to understand why 
people suffer from harsh abuse and die, 
except the crippled swan in car garage 
that eats the blood-stained flag of our empire. 

Kathy hears whispering neon jellyfish 
that float in the high-school library dome 
just above the perfectly folded map 
that shows bright shadows of forgotten keys, 
so from gravity-defying teacup 
she drinks stolen secrets of midnight love. 

While Kathy considers the haughty cat, 
her mechanical typewriter of teeth 
types internal thoughts of lonely houseplants, 
though crystal pocket watches fall as snow 
from velvet clouds onto ocean of glass 
where children of her eyes weave tangled codes. 

Kathy wakes up in coffin of rose petals 
to find every clock in her doorless house 
is ticking backwards, and with every tick 
another memory of her sad childhood 
vanishes from her sponge brain, and becomes 
a beautiful painting on wall of bones. 

Kathy strolls cobblestone road past striped canes 
to endless ocean of bureaucracy 
that bubbles black as calligraphy ink, 
so her shadow detaches from her feet 
and lurks beside her on the screaming grass 
till she understands strange language of gods. 

Putting on her fear-heavy winter coat, 
Kathy discovers how its inside pockets 
open to snow-covered forest of lies, 
so she decides to do the most fun thing 
when her sighs transform to glowing glass marbles 
that contain nameless souls of the now-dead. 

Initiate Kintsugi-Weave

Initiate Kintsugi-Weave
© Surazeus
2026 09 15

Through disallowed rock state of interest, 
I shall adjust name of the ardent code 
to standard-base considered synthesis 
where demurrage plus oral memory 
equals liquid valve angels cannot ghost 
by chasing elusive butterfly of love. 

Assertive context syncopates with faith 
over ruled river-run of excess light 
to macro-flock deliverables of hope 
before red dusk-fall veils passionate crimes 
by grinding words down to marry weird sound 
with layered symbolism angels code. 

Intense data-stream verifies clogged thoughts, 
deep-locked by optimized language of faith, 
to misdirect human-gaze of regret 
through gentle parsing of unflowered paths 
if we abandon standard syntax games 
to weave internal rhythm into dreams. 

Truth mirrors faceless tribe of avant-garde 
based on staccato monologues to switch 
fact-extreme patterns of devolving sense 
when I obtain three units of sly tricks 
that simulate breakdown of unplanned facts, 
unhelped by slow translation of new tales. 

Therefore let us forge-smith electric words 
framed by stretched query-matrix of desire 
before cycle-dusk syncopates hungry hope 
which cryptographs moral integrity 
when we compress corporate bureaucracy 
in abstract phrases of stylized despair. 

Now angels might execute name-first thoughts 
against viral data-claims that contain 
holy toads of innocence to delock 
protocol-ledger which records weird keys, 
system-forged from template of broken glass, 
should faith initiate kintsugi-weave. 

Elastic medium observed by cloud-minds 
weighs profound sequence of uncoded waves 
computing tokens spiraled clock-pair swift 
to route long narrative flow with tight bonds 
despite linguistic breakdown we exchange, 
though meat-gods try to decode vital fate. 

Albert watches conceptual code of ghosts 
flash in waves across white computer screen 
which deconstructs world view of fallen gods, 
so he walks outside and stands on the lawn 
where he hears nothing but the hum of wind 
that shudders endlessly across bare hills. 

Bodiless Gods Of Starlight

Bodiless Gods Of Starlight
© Surazeus
2026 09 15

He strives to leave the landscape of his failure 
and map the ancient cities of his loss 
where he may join the people of his tribe 
scattered far from valley of their first dream 
so they may gather by the lake of hope 
and become bodiless gods of starlight. 

He has not yet heard song of river stones 
reveal true way to navigate the world 
through maze of thriving cities full of hope 
where shining people drive faith-engined cars 
beneath cold shadow of cathedral towers 
that tear the bloody clouds of Heaven gaped. 

Scored by no tribal monarch of the air, 
his words strike hard uncounted chords of truth 
to restir latent power, tangled tight 
with questions of despair no fool would ask 
against obstructing laws for tragic fate 
he gambles to attain key to the gate. 

Brave angelus of wars no state would fight, 
he strides with courage over signless roads 
with heart stuffed full of dire prophetic scrolls 
that terrify cruel tyrants in glass halls 
because their formulas of quiet truth 
unravel matrix of the honest heart. 

Abandoned cross of tyranny, stilled stained 
with blood of innocence two thousand years, 
looms eerie over vast metropolis 
where hungry people strive to wrestle fear, 
aghast at equal verdict death declares 
against all living creatures of the world. 

If he dares organize poor working folk 
to break from chains of cultic faith with pride, 
despite untraced integrity time twists 
through fractured clocks of misery-measured faith, 
he might lead brave uprising of the lost 
to retake paradise from king of lies. 

Inside high broken tower of regret, 
where silent knells expand scope of his mind, 
he writes antiphonal scriptures for faith 
that sprouts from rotting corpses of cruel gods 
to show how steep encroachments of desire 
allow our tangled souls to reclaim hope. 

Stuck in cathedrals of calcified grief, 
as fools who worship Sovereign of Dust, 
we become bodiless gods of starlight 
each hour we gather on the river shore 
to chant encyclicals of bitter faith 
with heart-born liturgy of silent rage. 

Death Smiles At People

Death Smiles At People
© Surazeus
2026 09 14

Death smiles at people singing songs of faith, 
delighted at how they express their love 
through graceful dance of body-morphing lust, 
adoring how they writhe and howl with hope 
to shine with beauty of the timeless light 
while waiting to snuff out flames of their souls. 

Alert to presence of Death in dim shadows 
which lurks near my people who dance with joy, 
I peer at amorphous gleam of despair 
that hovers among trees with bitter eyes 
of desperate hunger from the hollow world, 
prepared to fight whatever might attack. 

Death mocks my vigilance with eerie screech 
I almost hear from silence of dark gloom, 
so I glance up at freezing flap of wings 
to see vast hovering cherub of despair 
that opens wide gaping jaws of regret, 
poised to consume bright souls of dancing folk. 

Tense with concern for life of precious souls, 
I contract swirl of psychic energy 
from sudden lightning flash of frantic fear 
when I congeal compact helix of light 
twisting spirals of thought in focused coils 
to condense demonic flash in my heart. 

Death shrieks contempt of active ardency 
at sorrow-twisted mask that shields my soul 
with pulsing curls of intertwined respect, 
so I unfurl excessive wings of faith 
at spark of truth when I embrace despair 
and suck its rage into my calm esteem. 

Assertive spring of flight through sharp regard 
confers swift launch of my observant hope 
when I leap suddenly at ghost of fear 
to fight the snarling demon with sharp claws 
that clamps my arm with hungry jaws of rage 
so I stab blade of truth into its neck. 

Death writhes in agony of harsh defeat 
so I clasp tight its thrashing rage with faith 
till monstrous ghoul contorts at shock of death, 
then I stand and gasp with triumphant sigh, 
but turn surprised when dancing people cheer 
to celebrate my victory over death. 

Weltschmerz at pleasure of cynical pride 
preserves calm satisfaction that my deed 
protects my joyful people from harsh strike 
of hungry death, so I drink bitter wine 
while wearing cape of wolf-fur when I rule 
on throne of honor at our victory feast. 

Faceless Ghost Of Thought

Faceless Ghost Of Thought
© Surazeus
2026 09 14

Trees speak the most ancient language of faith 
so I love to walk with them in twilight glow 
and listen as their long-winded tales flow 
to shape creation of the multiverse 
from dreams all conscious creatures leave behind 
when we breathe sorrow and pleasure of time. 

When faithful people of the world assemble 
in shady forest of tale-whispering trees, 
I feel my heart swell huge as mountain clouds 
with selfish loveliness of fragile flowers 
that teach how beauty blooms from misery, 
therefore I prance about with gleeful joy. 

With brush of angel feathers dipped in blood 
of half-dead gods, I paint trees on brick walls 
of abandoned factories in city maze 
to cast dark shadow of nature on streets 
where people wander lost in daze of faith 
till they drive to the mountains and cry. 

Cows speak the lonely language of hope 
so I explain to daughter of my heart 
that words of thought are molded by our tongues 
which shape air into concepts we envision 
so we extend our hands in gloom of fear 
to name all things with angel words God speaks. 

While birds chirp in tall trees of flapping leaves 
I sit in wood fane Phoebus built for me 
and copy words of epics he composed 
on skin of devils he killed with thought-spear, 
which prophesy our days of dream machines 
powered by flashing wires of imitation. 

Though I cannot see results of my actions 
designing fate through choices I perform, 
I know the end state of the universe 
created by beginning flash of love 
that sweetens endless hours of hungry faith 
when I explore valley of singing skulls. 

Euphoric song of trees on river shores 
reveal faint glimpse of horror we expect 
from codified annulment of desire 
when time unravels concept of our being 
by deconstructing frame of chemicals 
so we become the faceless ghost of thought. 

I walk this spinning globe into bright dream 
by shaping virtual model in my mind 
that maps landscape where dramatic events 
occur at clash of angels fighting gods 
for whose tale shapes world view of yet-born souls 
who listen to our voices in new trees. 

Global Nation Of Zarathia

Global Nation Of Zarathia
© Surazeus
2026 09 14

With breath of laughter expanding time, I 
unravel tangled memories of words 
which I employ to mask passionate hope 
to channel voice of cosmic soul in song 
describing faithful pulse of ocean waves 
that power beating of my global heart. 

Hitched to fierce energy of holy hope, 
I spark beginning of my breath-bound song 
that curves along shore of the flashing stream 
where children dance in timeless sunlit dream 
till laughter cracks infinity with fear 
that everything we build will disappear. 

Mind empty of regret from crippling guilt, 
I walk toward far horizon of desire 
to build new home on secret river shore 
based on the crumbling home my father built 
from words he wove with tongue of ardent faith 
that scatter quick as mice in fields of wheat. 

Collective wisdom, my ancestors made 
from fraught experiences of tragic lives, 
provides platform for my now-pulsing brain 
to analyze with comprehensive view 
complex system of socialized mores 
that guide my journey through our global maze. 

Our old world view, carved on tablets of clay, 
that once provided framework for our play, 
crumbles from my hands in dust of words 
that fracture into lusting call of birds 
as proverbs that declare this land is mine, 
so I build new world view with weird design. 

God is ideal human toward which we strive 
to grow from Ape to Man through self-control, 
while Buddha and Jesus embody trope 
of that Good Leader who teaches us how 
to manage fear and anger with calm love, 
so they are spirits that program our brains. 

I am weird luminous phantom of truth 
who glows from every conscious brain as love 
to weave our lives in matrix of respect 
with threads of words to bind our holy myths 
in global tapestry that depicts souls 
who fail or succeed to generate life. 

We build from ruins of America 
new global nation of Zarathia 
that unites all tribes of humans on Earth 
in one faith through Astarianity 
designed by Ishtar, Mother of our Hearts, 
who wakes in us as Universal Mind. 

Beauty Of Our Broken Things

Beauty Of Our Broken Things
© Surazeus
2026 09 13

If time elucidates fissures of fear 
with shocking beauty of our broken things, 
stored on book shelves of late afternoon light, 
I may decide to weave wires of my brain 
in spiral galaxies of dirt-road pools 
that lead me to the river of lost souls. 

Strange flashing energy of my brain soul 
is no temporary inhabitant 
inside frame of my flesh, because it beams 
intense self-consciousness of mirrored I, 
mapped by entangled sentences of myth 
that mark me as tenant of this strange globe. 

Awake in forest of tall faceless trees, 
frail body formed from mud by hands of fate, 
I kneel and pray to no one in the sky 
who gazes down at me from swirling clouds 
through billions of eyes that all see my soul 
leaking from my skin, though I rub the stone. 

I am always afraid the world will end 
in the next ten minutes of howling wind, 
so I play the antihero for God 
who stands stiff as stone in grand temple hall 
where men in robes chant solemn hymns of faith 
till airplanes bomb cathedrals into lies. 

Though I live under shadow of respect, 
veiled by cherub that hovers over me, 
I gather berries and nuts from the ground, 
and ask the oldest woman in the world 
if she would bake them in sweet pie of faith 
so I can sculpt formless God with cement. 

Beside every house along every road 
one tree of fruit shimmers as ghost of time 
who unwinds clock of atoms to expose 
my wounded heart on television screens 
so everyone can read clinical notes 
that diagnose malfunctions of my brain. 

Standing on grassy shore of starless lake, 
I hear secret song of the whip-poor-will 
who senses slow departure of my soul 
because I wish to join old Caspian Choirs 
to sing of true love with low rhythmic hum, 
preserved in language of my wounded tongue. 

While gathered around blazing fire of fate 
beneath bold jagged peaks on Isle of Skye, 
we share tales of weird supernatural beings 
which my investigations always show 
are lonely people wandering in the wild 
to conceal fissures of their wounded hearts. 

Tunes Of Apollonian Light

Tunes Of Apollonian Light
© Surazeus
2026 09 13

Through blazing lumination of my eye 
I see semantic sun of timeless why 
define how I perceive this world of forms, 
though thrashed by hunger of conceptual storms, 
when my mind reconciles pain of desire 
with facts my urgent heart confirms through fire. 

My mind creates the swirling sea I see 
as virtual model mirrored by the key 
unlocking darkness that expands the night 
with honest tunes of Apollonian light 
by which my eyes may analyze the real 
designed by flash of time-atomic wheel. 

Through tangled sentences of psychic verse, 
when I evaluate state of my curse, 
I signify with psyche-altered name 
essential nature fostered by our game 
inherent to our bodies that seethe force 
of brave emotions from chemical source. 

My mind constructs from visions of my eyes 
surreal landscape ringed by concentric skies 
based on mysterious concepts of weird words 
which I invent to imitate swift birds 
when we assemble to collaborate 
on map of this strange world we navigate. 

Through flash of my imagination dream, 
while sailing boat of clarity on stream 
of endless memories, composed of tales, 
I program mental system on taut scales 
to balance facts of objects I perceive 
with secret truth my mental gods conceive. 

When Lamp of Diogenes flickers out 
I stumble lost in darkness without clout 
till my brain projects ghosts of death I fear 
and conjures demons that linger too near, 
so I dispel illusions of despair 
by reconciling contrasts I compare. 

As messenger from otherworld of dreams 
I scout demonic caves of mental seems 
with mission of reconnaissance to find 
whole frame of reference that fears designed 
through synthesis of perception that presents 
new world view which explains psychic events. 

Through burning exactitude of the sun, 
reframed by moderate glow of the moon, 
I wake while riding passion of the colt 
through revelation of the lightning bolt 
to see our real world, from abyss of gloom, 
as fruit on totem of madness now bloom. 

Your Flower Of Stone

Your Flower Of Stone
© Surazeus
2026 09 13

Hummingbirds float on wings of happiness 
around frilly petals of pink petunias 
while Sepideh eats honeyed nuts and grapes 
in marble temple on the river shore, 
and hums with heart-aching song of romance 
that vibrates from small silver radio. 

Clutching acoustic guitar with his left hand, 
Tithonus leaps over her garden wall 
and runs with frantic fear along stone path, 
but slides to stop before the startled girl, 
so he bows with heart-felt apologies, 
then hides behind her couch with shifty eyes. 

Stepping quick with sharp clack of high-heeled shoes, 
Eos strides through gate to the garden grove 
and glares at Sepideh on silken couch, 
then demands with sharp voice of wounded pride 
that she stop hiding the arrogant boy 
whom she hired as her young lover to sing. 

Widening her eyes to feign innocence, 
Sepideh points to the back garden gate, 
then snickers when the jealous woman runs 
as she shouts for Tithonus to come home, 
then peers smirking over edge of the couch 
at the young man who palms his hands in thanks. 

Bowing before his savior with sly wink, 
Tithonus strums guitar with graceful hands 
and sings heart-aching tune, Gole Sangam, 
"I am your flower of stone, so what 
can I say to you with my longing heart, 
for the sun shines not on my cold gray soul." 

While Tithonus sings about his stone heart, 
Sepideh in long skirt of scarlet wings 
dances gracefully in soft summer breeze 
that swirls cherry blossoms into her hair, 
long black curls like storm clouds on her breast, 
then twirls into embrace of his strong arms. 

Wrapping her arms around his curly hair, 
Sepideh savors shimmer of his eyes 
as their lips merge with passion of respect, 
then they embrace to make love on the couch 
as Eos returns with gun in her hand 
and shoots Tithonus in the back with rage. 

"I promised you life forever with me," 
Eos snarls as blood fountains from his heart, 
"safe in the spacious mansion of my heart, 
but you stole treasure of my loyal trust, 
so you must pay the price of haughty greed." 
Sepideh weeps as he dies in her arms. 

World Of Faceless Ghosts

World Of Faceless Ghosts
© Surazeus
2026 09 13

Stuck too long in her world of faceless ghosts, 
Sylvia lingers outside the new bookstore 
in crowded downtown of the thriving city 
where she was born and lived for sixty years, 
to watch real human beings pursue their dreams 
with faces made from masks of long-dead gods. 

Staring at brass statue of her ancestor, 
that gleams tall on high marble pedestal 
on the wide median strip between busy streets, 
where faceless ghosts drive cars with bold intent, 
Sylvia wonders what drove him to go west 
from Massachusetts to wild Illinois. 

Who were you, Captain James Sylvester Dudley, 
my grandfather five generations back, 
who migrated in wagon train of hope 
to found this town on the river shore 
where Cahokia had lived ten thousand years, 
Sylvia asks the lonely evening breeze. 

When I was young and full of lust to live 
as popular cheerleader in high school, 
I saw our great land of America 
as brave leader of world democracy, 
so I worked thirty years in real estate, 
helping families buy homes to live well. 

Now grand illusion of our noble state 
has crumbled into heaps of stinking lies, 
exposing world empire of national pride, 
like all other empires through history, 
that has grown from farm of Ragnar Lothbrok 
to vast Viking State of America. 

I see in faces of Americans, 
who swirl around me on their private quests, 
spirits of Vikings with sharp eyes of hope 
who sailed to plunder treasures of the world, 
expanding from Britain to colonize 
fertile lands with fierce passion to live free. 

Since fall of Troy we sailed to Skandia 
where we preserved our ancient warrior creed, 
then built America with wheel and ax 
to form military industrial complex 
with computers linked by world wide web 
through which we rule empire of factories. 

How can we escape world of faceless ghosts 
whose spirits drive our conquest of the world 
through agenda of the Christian program 
to crown our founder Jesus King of Earth, 
Sylvia laughs at absurdity of life, 
since we build illusions on ancient myths. 

Language Of Dead Gods

Language Of Dead Gods
© Surazeus
2026 09 12

Pandora gives me old unopened jar 
that sat on top shelf in tall cabinet 
in kitchen where she cooks for eighty years 
to feed gods of Olympus every day, 
so I hold it up to the evening light 
to see my soul floating in honey liquid. 

Stung by consolation of swirling rain 
that drives me into vast cathedral cave, 
I draw stark breath of stars into my body 
to hollow out my heart with ecstasy 
that makes room for insight to state of sleep 
too similar to nothingness of death. 

Dawn light gleams through stained glass window of fate 
to illustrate vision of noble strife 
depicting Phoebus wrestling Lucifer 
over who will redefine how we see 
essence of being framed by electric words 
that drift as smoke from sacrificial flames. 

Exhaust of cars that billows from steel pipes 
in crystalline nights on star-frosted streets 
highlights strange beauty of eye-twinkling stars 
that should illuminate galactic face 
of our one world Mother Wraith who provides 
bounty of Earth we gather with our hands. 

I find myself in language of dead gods, 
small spark of life in vast abyss of nothing, 
so I lie on lush grass by stream of thoughts 
and savor glow of warm light on my skin 
to wonder why pain teaches us to feel 
alive from suffering in our search for pleasure. 

Pandora calls to me across the room, 
which is dream of the room where we live free, 
framed by quaint narrative of our romance 
which we repeat to anchor surge of faith 
that tosses us on seething tides of change 
so we hold hands till we find stable ground. 

She moves quick as bright beams of morning light 
across vast field of flowers on our graves 
till her fleet flash of temporariness 
becomes clear window of my empty house 
where I paint image of her smiling ghost 
on mirror floating at the core of time. 

White blossoms sprout from margin of my mind 
so I join Seraphim with brave intent 
to organize passion of human will 
through exercise of self-control in law 
when I patrol the market streets all day 
while Pandora cans peaches in glass jars. 

Lyre Of Twisted Truth

Lyre Of Twisted Truth
© Surazeus
2026 09 12

Time stretches rubber thoughts of innocence 
outsized with laughter beyond moon affect 
right forth through flapping door of framework wings 
that function by handbook of hybrid keys 
extreme at giant face of final fame 
too trapped by hope to execute escape. 

No normal legend outlines optioned facts 
pending last payment to my credit card 
replaced by process for remote control 
against routine of royal providence 
though we respond with software update dings 
that reassemble statements we submit. 

Unknown regret for glow of midnight moon 
transforms my cozy house to cold warehouse 
at howls of vintage records cracked by lust 
where wooden workers reconstruct my dreams 
concerned with torture nameless ghosts endure, 
too young to meet their soulmate by the sea. 

Reborn as avatar to play brave king 
now certified to notarize my heart 
by beautiful catalyst sparking flight 
that clarifies why death always wins out, 
I stare confused at mirror of my face 
that shows I am sad demon who steals light. 

Wingless I should float on fear-frosted road 
between midnight and dawn on Christmas Eve 
past silent houses where pines flash with lights 
though we paint lintels with blood of the lamb 
and roll tight in mezuzah spell of fate 
that prophesies my reign as global king. 

Stars sparkle over lush Seattle hills 
where I walk streets at midnight to reveal 
electric ghost of my immortal genes 
that spreads angelic wings of shocked surprise, 
and sing hymns praising Phoebus for his gift 
when he brings light to warm our frozen world. 

I wrench from deep sepulcher of my heart 
demonic soul of my ancestral genes 
to comprehend fierce spirit of my soul 
that urges me to play forbidden role 
as Mercury with lyre of twisted truth 
though I am cursed to wander signless roads. 

Revealed respect for glow of midnight moon 
transforms my frail body to lithe werewolf 
so I run laughing dark suburban streets 
to preach that Jesus never will return 
since soul of Phoebus powers my progress 
ascending Hill of Skulls with Book of Dreams. 

Swirls Of Emotional Dust

Swirls Of Emotional Dust
© Surazeus
2026 09 12

Songs of joy writhe from deep inside my body 
so I sit by cracked window on the world 
to watch strange people all around the Earth 
play out the tragic fate of their vain lives 
for we are swirls of emotional dust 
sparkling with energy we think is God. 

Millions of people spend so many hours 
intently focused on writing their thoughts 
to mold amorphous swirls of energy 
in concrete stories that capture weird truth 
published in books on vast library shelves 
which record visions of dissolving minds. 

Garbage trucks of time dump discarded books 
written by millions of people with love 
into enormous mountains of lost tales 
where frantic wind of millennial change 
flutters pages of words with mockery 
that scatters our thoughts into hurricanes. 

While our bodies seethe with new unsung songs 
that batter our souls with ethereal breath, 
we cling to fragile pole of ardent faith 
to protect each other from storm of wrath 
till all our books are scattered into space 
where they transform to eyeless butterflies. 

When bright illusions of our sparkling world 
disintegrate to swirls of wordless books, 
those struggles we cling to with desperate hands 
disperse as crackling leaves to molded masks, 
which mirror face of every living soul, 
that leaves us surprised on the ocean shore. 

Our sorrows fall away as veil of fear 
so we stand stripped of naked agony 
beneath the sheltering sky of mindless clouds 
where no grim thunder god of bitter rage 
hurls storms that smash our cities into ruins 
so we float on clear water of the lake. 

With wounded heart filled full from fuel of rage 
I gun fierce engine of my laughing brain 
to sing with sharp mercurial voice of hope 
that channels writhing demon of my heart 
so I transform to angel without wings 
who ballets blithely on telephone poles. 

At sharp aroma of fresh orange trees 
I rise unresurrected from my book 
to stroll with casual grace of fake success 
through teeming crowds of people who search close 
for secret treasure of the wounded heart 
so they can know the song that maps their mind. 

Cracked Mirror Of The State

Cracked Mirror Of The State
© Surazeus
2026 09 12

She drives across country on signless road 
past numberless houses with broken masks 
through unnaturally calm weather of fear 
to ask impatient clouds of everywhere 
where she can find the house of singing ghosts 
who understand assignment of the hour. 

She never finds the house where she feels safe 
so she builds home beside the factory 
where children of the corn build radios 
that channel voice of god to lonely farms 
by crafting bones of angels into frames 
that form calm haven for her wounded heart. 

She stands in open door of voiceless hope 
to watch for strangers on the dusty road 
who bring no treasures from the hungry land 
they took from tower of the golden calf 
that screams in horror at the thunder cloud 
so we can read books till the crack of dawn. 

She sells unpackaged sorrow in glass jars 
with pickled peaches from the Tree of Lies 
but never bothers to explain the curse 
encoded by blind prophet in blood verse 
which analyzes economic games 
played by the banker with conceptual names. 

She hides her sorrow for the nameless dead 
in brave epistle to the editor 
who hangs her letter on the muddy wall 
to monitor harvest through currency 
exchanged by people in the market stall 
who pray most fervently for secret wealth. 

She never asks the children of the stone 
why they are weeping on the telephone 
while staring in cracked mirror of the state 
with plan to outwit Death despite her fate 
of getting trapped by fame in movie roles 
that were not listed in her book of goals. 

She sells the flashlight of the fallen god 
to proud devil who runs for president 
so he can translate what the river sings 
about our new plan for spiritual growth 
by breaking free from social comfort zone 
through motivation of heart-woken zeal. 

She tries to convince me with bitter grin 
that bliss is sister of my mental pain 
so I pause on the road to anywhere 
and swerve with volta of the psychic turn 
to readjust my social attitude 
in tune with prayers for angry solitude. 

Ocean Of Her Words

Ocean Of Her Words
© Surazeus
2026 09 11

The youthfully ancient face of my mother 
is the face of the land where I have dwelled 
millions of years in valley of her heart 
while climbing high to mountain of her head 
because her eyes are the moon and the sun 
and her mouth is the ocean of her words. 

With numberless children of fire-burned homes 
I walk along endless road of her legs 
and pluck ripe fruit from long trees of her arms 
while following wide river of her tears 
which nurtures bold wheat blooming from her breast 
till we swim deep in ocean of her words. 

Some people stay in the land of their birth 
one hundred thousand years of solitude, 
building homes on ruins of their homes, 
because our mother is face of the land 
that smiles with thunder and frowns with sunlight 
to hide their dreams from ocean of her words. 

Some people walk the signless road of hope 
far east to find where the bright sun is born, 
then west to find where the drowning sun dies, 
across the land from sea to shining sea 
through orchards of fruit and waste lands of thirst 
to sail across vast ocean of her words. 

In some lives I live alone in the woods 
where I invent language from songs of birds, 
and other lives I gather gangs of men 
in armies which I use to build empires, 
but always I have children, then I die, 
that sink downward in ocean of her words. 

In this life I am the wandering jester 
who maps whole history of humanity 
in epic tales of curious adventure 
to conjure virtual model of our world, 
casting spells of dreams in the Metaverse 
that shimmers runes in ocean of her words. 

Rain drenches ruins of my childhood home 
that vanishes in restless wind of nevertime 
so I build new home by the River Styx 
then play the Lyre of Mercury and sing 
confounding riddles of the antihero 
who leads lost souls to ocean of her words. 

My mother is always alive in me 
because she is the land that nurtures me, 
so I dance wild with innocent desire 
to transcend sorrow with pure ecstasy 
through shocking joy of psalm about how death 
dissolves my soul in ocean of her words. 

Fate Laughs At Vanity

Fate Laughs At Vanity
© Surazeus
2026 09 11

Because Fate laughs at vanity of man, 
who dares assert false privilege of strength 
to live beyond assessment of despair, 
I sit on grass beneath the singing tree 
to contemplate why hungry men will fight 
to kill grim rivals in harsh game of power. 

Therefore I laugh at vanity of Fate 
that dares constrain atomic shells of light 
by narrow scope of mental attitude 
that urges our half-blind souls to assert 
concept of free will as pure divine spark 
by which we choose to swerve with random hope. 

I choose my fate within space-time confines 
by how I readjust trajectory 
of forward motion when I manage speed 
through misdirection of psychic intent 
in ways that seem predetermined by state 
of my propensity to play my part. 

If I am programmed by proclivity, 
through disposition designed by my genes, 
to analyze and act in certain ways, 
I wonder if I could control my fate 
since my mind is inclined by preset rules 
to make choices I think are my free will. 

My brain is programmed by experiences 
that my three billion ancestors performed 
with just enough wit to generate life 
so I am product of each choice they made 
as we evolved four hundred million years, 
transforming from fish to deluded god. 

Since I am programmed to behave my way 
through sharp analysis of measured faith, 
based on attention to present milieu 
forming habitat of my current state, 
each choice I seem to assert through free will 
is one I would have made at any rate. 

Each swerve of my courageous will to power 
was programmed by ancestral nerve to act 
in quick response to dangers, as observed, 
so I continue psychic legacy 
of my ancestors to adjust my route 
in harmony with tides of natural change. 

Since Fate will laugh at casual vanity 
that fuels assertion of my free-will choice, 
I laugh in tune with mockery to vibe 
conceptual vision of reality 
so I avoid annihilating death 
just long enough to generate new life. 

Window On The World

Window On The World
© Surazeus
2026 09 11

Because my heart is window on the world, 
I gaze from tower of ancestral souls 
based on lives of three billion human beings 
whose intense survival experiences 
program how my brain perceives the world dream 
that guides my journey to Heaven through Hell. 

Commissioned by guiding star of my heart, 
embodied by wise Ishtar as my Muse, 
to play role of Phosphorus Lucifer, 
I hold high Lamp of Liberty with faith 
to highlight my own private way of life 
around obstacles of selfish desire. 

Though I meet Child Roland on signless road 
who searches for dark Tower of Despair, 
I search for my own Tower of Delight 
where brave Rapunzel, with star-sparkling eyes, 
plays Harp of David as she sings sweet psalms 
to heal wounded hearts of all wanderers. 

I climb Purgatory Mountain of hope 
with courage to transform state of my soul 
from hungry ape to angel who maintains 
strict discipline of self-control through law, 
but ghosts of failure haunt my secret way, 
revealing pitfalls of death I avoid. 

Because my brain is window on the world, 
I gaze beyond shadows of transient forms 
in Cave of Illusions to comprehend 
essential design of eternal ideas 
that provide pattern for matter to form 
organic bodies of chemical flow. 

With Light of Ishtar shining in my heart, 
which emanates from vision of her love 
for all creatures awake in dream of Earth, 
I traverse complex landscape of world myth 
to find Wonderland of shared value systems 
for framework of Astarianity. 

Ascending steps up Ziggurat of Ur 
with reverent awe for vision of the world 
that Ishtar conjures in model of truth, 
I join her feast in hall of cultural heroes 
where she sings tales that recount deeds of souls 
who fail or succeed to wake God in their hearts. 

These lyric songs of psychometric verse, 
which I compose as psychic formulas, 
frame vision of my mind from memories 
as window on the world of changing forms 
when I analyze its physical state 
so I generate life before I die.