Intense Desire To Live

Intense Desire To Live
© Surazeus
2026 08 19

I feel the ocean seething in my brain 
when I somersault inside the black hole 
that pulses with intense desire to live 
to wake up bound inside this coil of flesh 
that urges me to compete for fresh fruit 
so I generate life before I die. 

I feel vast emptiness of everything 
swell huge through singularity 
in still point at the center of all light 
when galaxies flare forth from flash of thought 
then spiral into strands of clicking genes 
that mold bipedal gods with grasping hands. 

I feel urge to transcend my frame of thought 
so I run laughing on long wooden dock, 
then leap high into heaven of gold clouds 
on time-rewinding wings of Icarus, 
but fate pulls me back down to solid state 
where I laugh wildly on my back in grass. 

I feel expanding scope of consciousness 
envelop Earth with gleam of mental code 
so I dream every soul who ever lives 
as universal mind of mindless self 
who sings in one harmonious melody 
hearts of eight billion separate human beings. 

Suryathi, bright-eyed Goddess of the Sun, 
ascends from gleaming fields of blooming rice 
to fly on bold Apsara wings of faith 
above vast complex of tall tower spires 
and scatters coins of gold on villages 
where farmers bless her generosity. 

Gold river dragon rises from clear stream, 
eyes gleaming bright as diamonds of star truth, 
scales writhing lithe as flames of holy thought, 
and sings uncanny spell of heart insight 
that sparks strange vision of world prophecy 
which I sing as I stroll long road of light. 

Queen Mary steps from wood ship of desire 
and strides wet stones in swirling fog of fear 
to claim with faith the jeweled crown of thorns 
she wears as wise Minerva born on Earth, 
then tells me with soft voice of ocean waves 
that I will build new kingdom of free will. 

Since I am temporary node of thought 
that vibrates spirit of genetic code 
as deathless angel in my mortal shell, 
I order hamburger with tater tots 
and eat lunch at bench in the river park, 
then play guitar and sing of human hope. 

Delusions Of Global Conquest

Delusions Of Global Conquest
© Surazeus
2026 08 19

If I should find myself under attack 
by gangs of thieves hostile to my free will, 
I may hope Aphrodite would appear 
to whisk me away in cloud of concern, 
like she sheltered Paris from Menelaus, 
because my heart is full of love for life. 

I pray to Goddess of Beauty and Love 
to veil my fragile soul of naive hope 
from social predators, armed with state laws, 
who try to scam my innocent respect 
with lucrative return on vested funds, 
and bear me to safe haven in her heart. 

Were clever Eris, Trickster of Desire, 
to toss Apple of Chaos at my feet, 
so Goddesses of Wisdom, Love, and Power, 
were to tempt me with treasures of their hearts, 
I like to think my mind would analyze 
best scene that fosters spiritual success. 

While I decide which path I want to take 
that guides me to domestic quietude, 
I must descend to Underworld of dreams 
to ask Achilles and Odysseus 
which goddess I should choose to risk my fate, 
whose fortunes present results of Free Will. 

Perhaps I may find Dante by the pool, 
where Narcissus listens to Echo sing, 
so he will guide me to the Promised Land 
in lush Edenic vales of Idaho 
where I travel on the Oregon Trail 
to escape slaughter of religious wars. 

With spirit of Adam I tend fruit trees 
to fight deceptive serpent with gold eyes, 
inspired by Jesus son of Jupiter, 
because I choose to consume Fruit of Faith 
that opens my Third Eye of Star Insight 
to help me perceive essence of all things. 

With courage of brave Arthur of the Stone, 
descendent of Jehovian Fisher King, 
and Marya Magdalena, Mermaid Queen, 
I bear the bloody cross of holy war 
to build ten thousand towers of white stone, 
constructing Kingdom of Heaven on Earth. 

All these delusions of global conquest, 
that drove my ancestors two thousand years 
to colonize every nation on Earth, 
now dissipate in wordless glow of dawn, 
so I drink from the Holy Grail of Truth 
in my self-made role as Messiah Sleuth. 

Star Eyes Of My Night

Star Eyes Of My Night
© Surazeus
2026 08 19

Because she is the star eyes of my night, 
beaming visions of vain hope from her heart, 
I search with hope for algorithmic ways 
to redesign our social narrative 
so we admire perceptive qualities 
of common people struggling to survive. 

The plumber adjusts invisible pipes 
to channel water from the River Styx 
through sink faucet in kitchen of concern 
so I can cook spaghetti on the stove 
with tomato sauce and parmesan cheese 
when we drink wine and ignore falling bombs. 

The workers who repair our broken homes 
with frames of wood and nets of copper wires 
work with their hands to reshape forms of hope 
against oppressive tyranny of words 
stacked by large language models of pride 
so we drive our cars to the grocery store. 

The mechanic tweaks engine of my car 
so gas in combustion chamber explodes 
to power spin the piston engine sparks 
in twirling cycle of aggressive force 
so we zoom fast across map-measured space 
in time machine of legalized control. 

The farmer plows soil with hard dragon bone 
and sows sharp teeth in furrows of mute verse 
so angels and devils both spring with hope 
from field of dreams to colonize the world 
and build vast maze of streets with numbered doors 
where idols of dead gods direct our lives. 

The driver maneuvers delivery truck 
on web of highways sea to shining sea, 
porting raw materials to factories, 
providing merchandise to shopping stores, 
and stocking homes with valuable assets 
where we dwell in domestic quietude. 

The baker gathers wheat that Ceres grows 
to grind grains into flour of secret code 
they program into loaves of fresh-baked bread 
that we eat with fried fish and tartar sauce 
when Jesus preaches Sermon on the Mount 
about caring for homeless immigrants. 

I dream I meet Jesus on signless road 
alive as you and me with pulsing heart, 
so I ask if he will return again soon, 
but he shows how his spirit incarnates 
in leaders who nurture each human being 
through state that gives all freedom to live well. 

How Psychic Angels Talk

How Psychic Angels Talk
© Surazeus
2026 08 18

The peaceful loneliness of the sidewalk, 
where I wander between asphalt and grass, 
reveals to me how psychic angels talk 
when they calculate our terrestrial mass, 
so I visit Emily in her yard 
where she grins and deals the Magician card. 

Strange blueness of the midafternoon sky, 
that glows behind web of telephone lines, 
explains futility for asking why 
death occurs in this world no God designs, 
since Jesus tells me no one is up there, 
so we must show the living that we care. 

Grim grayness of the town-connecting street, 
that tricks me to go anywhere I want, 
extracts despair from my heart with each beat 
which powers angel wings I dare to flaunt, 
but I cannot fly, so I journey on, 
strumming guitar as the national pawn. 

Indifferent angst of sunrays in glass doors, 
exposing vanity of daily work, 
tricks me to find salvation in bookstores 
where prophets without holy books still lurk, 
but when I visit his still-empty tomb 
Zeus tries to sell me riddles that spell doom. 

Since Jesus has been dead two thousand years 
our personal relationship is stalled, 
so his granddaughter cleans the world with tears 
when she appoints me as her castle skald 
to sing of Mermaid and her Holy Grail 
who dwells in haven of the mountain vale. 

Proud dignity of the telephone pole 
provides new framework for our old world view 
that every human has appointed role 
to kill each other over what is true, 
so I must deconstruct class privilege 
when I rebuild United Nations bridge. 

Locked doors of houses in suburban zones 
discuss catastrophe of being alive, 
so I sell Bibles forged from dragon bones 
to save family photos on the hard drive 
as puzzle pieces in tale of our state 
fractured in church gangs by greed-driven hate. 

Strange quietness of wind on the bare hill 
drives me to stack stones in heavenly wall 
by adjusting duty based on free will 
while I sell apples in the market stall, 
till Emily steps from carriage of faith 
and asks if I have seen the Cosmic Wraith. 

Psychic Rivers Of Regret

Psychic Rivers Of Regret
© Surazeus
2026 08 18

Soft vibration of crystal words reforms 
how human brains perceive the Face of God 
that gleams from golden clouds of arrogance 
to mutate how we talk about our souls 
as light that glows from fragile shell of glass 
which blinks out when the brain ceases to dream. 

If angels dare to explain how the brain 
could process sentences of fractured truth, 
we humans might remember why we hope 
to share conversations about rebirth 
in humming mountains of social thoughts 
when we meet ourselves in the spectral zone. 

I hear ephemeral voice of weird faith 
when I float high on invisible wings 
to teach the faceless ghosts of everywhere 
strange secret of conceptual innocence 
inherent in fake law of gravity 
that might invalidate my divine creed. 

Since no one speaks about the fall of stones 
which float on psychic rivers of regret, 
we gaze in eyes of people starved by fear, 
trapped in the prison camp of global faith, 
who sell each other empty books of tales 
which they burn to keep warm on winter nights. 

Foreclosed quality of inhuman speech, 
concerned with quality of suffering, 
pronounces new law of humble rapport 
between exploiters and victims of fraud 
who argue semantics in the locked church 
to deconstruct confession bombs of truth. 

If we use language to communicate 
hunger for substantial faith in the known, 
we might confuse young children without keys 
who prove flowers and glaciers design 
how we give and take in contests of love 
for return on investment despite death. 

Haunted by attentive ghosts of lakes, 
shot by angel of spiritual rewards 
who deems them unfit to work in food stores, 
I gamble for salvation with word-luck, 
heart tangled in language matrix of truth, 
when I overhear words of flightless souls. 

Awake with breath-turn of the mountain vale, 
I measure atom-wind of spiral waves 
to sense pure essence of the conscious brain 
which translates seething tides of wordless hope 
to jumbled logic of cathedral hymns 
which humans sing to pretend no one dies. 

Ideal God Of Joy

Ideal God Of Joy
© Surazeus
2026 08 17

Through time-expanding laughter of my heart 
I redesign perspective of my brain 
to frame traumatic events of despair 
as opportunities to learn and grow 
while I strive with encouragement of faith 
to transcend limitations of the self. 

Bright light of this brave proverb blinds my eyes 
so I cannot perceive progressive way 
to maintain balance over shifting sands, 
so I shade straight attention of my heart 
with cautious code that helps me better see 
road I need to take through shadow of fear. 

I ponder weirdness of reverse effect 
that proves through success of daily routines 
how this much more cynical attitude, 
that death will dismember my fragile soul, 
guides my way around brutish obstacles 
better than faith in providence of God. 

What does not kill me tends to injure me 
instead of filling me with noble strength, 
yet cautious attention to dangerous threats 
provides sharp wit to analyze landscape 
cluttered with soul-consuming traps of pain, 
so I can navigate to safer ground. 

This principle, that fear increases sight 
so grim despair beams soul-liberating light 
as guiding star that helps me evade death, 
seems to contradict creed of piety 
that commands I attend events with faith 
in some faceless God that glows in the sky. 

All my ancestors once lived long enough 
through cautious attention to reality 
to generate new life before they died, 
so sharp-eyed vigilance of prudent care, 
which they programmed into my psychic genes, 
still dictates how I decide to proceed. 

Though techniques of survival we accrue 
through countless generations of rebirth 
provide complex algorithms of insight, 
our progress to transcend frail human state 
seems to retard evolutionary growth 
so few attain divine enlightenment. 

I need no name or complex tale of growth 
depicting process of cause and effect 
for me to moralize in mental code 
spirit-expanding scope of consciousness 
enhancing how my mind perceives this world 
as I grow into ideal God of Joy. 

Become Flowers In Rain

Become Flowers In Rain
© Surazeus
2026 08 17

Before marble tomb of some long-dead god, 
whose descendants crowned themselves kings of hope, 
I listen to wordless voice of the wind 
tell me about strange vanity of men 
who manage other men to do their will 
till they die and become flowers in rain. 

I find ten thousand tombs of long-dead gods 
scattered across new temporary states 
where living gods rule from high offices 
concerned about survival this fraught hour 
while thousands strive to gain that seat of power 
though butterflies explain wisdom of love. 

Should Time reallocate energy sparks 
enough for me to play on stage of fate 
wise god who manages affairs of state, 
I will accept with grace her calm command 
to plan program that funds creative work 
which nurtures talents of committed souls. 

Should I succeed in my inspiring plot 
to implement social program for scheme 
that provides urge of hope for every soul, 
people may mold metal in my shape 
to capture in changeless idol of hope 
bold spirit of my vision for their lives. 

Yet I prefer to play my private role 
as plain artificial world generator 
when I design with sentences and shapes 
tales that map complete history of mankind 
on time-animated atlas of hope 
so we analyze our progress so far. 

When I was young some thirty years ago 
I exited maze of the social grid 
and traveled east on the Oregon Trail, 
where my ancestors in wagons went west, 
to find my homeland that does not exist, 
but dance till I become flowers in rain. 

Though empires rise and fall in tides of change, 
which elevates some mortal man as god 
till they dissolve into stories in books, 
I keep on walking down the signless road 
to map our journey till the sun explodes 
and we become atomic ghosts of light. 

She asks me if I know how I should feel, 
so I write verses of riddles in sand 
to record dream of my epiphany 
that programs how my brain perceives the world 
till waves of time wipe all my words away 
and wind sings on beach of eternity. 

Gospel Of The Caring Smile

Gospel Of The Caring Smile
© Surazeus
2026 08 16

Each dawn when Odin smiles at ghosts of men 
I look from office window of my hope 
and wonder who the strangers are who walk 
nowhere across narrow scope of my mind 
with casual indifference to suffering 
people in distant lands endure with grace. 

No matter where I wander in the world 
I meet the Gray Wanderer on the road 
who offers small box with the angel tongue, 
or in the room where picture frames slip slant 
at sideways readjustment of the mind 
because he always seems to know me first. 

My brain will flash with secret memories 
at sudden gust of wind from the Great Voice 
which erases words of fake languages 
and traps their concepts in smooth river stones 
so they become the horse of poetry 
who gallops laughing on the hill of skulls. 

Because half-open door of secret faith 
exposes potent passion for sweet fruit, 
I file restraining order against Death 
who wants to help me generate new life, 
but I am happy in my forest hut 
reading the last book my god-soul once wrote. 

Startled at vision of the Wanderer, 
whose time-mapped visage of assertive faith 
smiles back at me from mirror of the mind, 
I hide bright halo shining on my head 
with flashing cables of the world wide web 
to prove my true street credibility. 

Inspired by words of blood in holy books 
to find the Garden of the Unicorn, 
I stand in middle of the busy road 
and wave to faceless people driving past 
because no creature in this world can last 
except for our first god, the humming toad. 

When I feel lost in haze of innocence 
that shrouds rugged hills of Arcadia, 
the one-eyed Wanderer of Anywhere 
provides advice with riddles of the fool 
who always knows more than the haughty king 
because only the weak claim right to rule. 

If Odin rides the train over the Alps 
to visit Shrine of Mary by the lake, 
he may be startled by epiphany 
that Womb of Woman generates new souls, 
so he tours television studios 
to preach the gospel of the caring smile. 

Quick Ruin Of Our Age

Quick Ruin Of Our Age
© Surazeus
2026 08 16

When death attempts to realign the clock 
through subtle syncopation of lamplight, 
I sell useless treasures of crumbled hope 
that drift in cold wind with unfolded sheep 
while children wander beyond the frontier 
to prove paradise remains when time cracks. 

I build booth in swamp of reluctant prayer 
to swim at ease in waters of despair 
which proves soul of the world still animates 
mortal humans striving against regret 
to become one spirit with the Great Being 
who walks invisible in singing fields. 

Through glory of the Great Awakening 
I seek to comprehend vast Mind of God 
that teems thick with billions of self-named souls 
who join discourse of blind philosophers 
to analyze true nature of the self 
when I ascend on winding stairs of hope. 

Invisible to eyes of mortal gods 
who meet every month in the time-locked church, 
I talk about our pilgrimage to Hell 
in grand tradition of fake heritage 
that drives our bodies to wear naked clothes 
discarded by the jester king of faith. 

Eroded by quick ruin of our age, 
that transforms fair things of our tearful pride 
to bleak consumption of hot desert sand, 
our world view readjusts its paradigm 
from ziggurat to castle to starship 
through which I will investigate the world. 

I search through every city left on Earth 
to find original framework of fate 
since ancient temples are now empty tombs 
beside the sacred river that still flows 
long after our ancestors turn to dust 
so we admire strange grandeur of decay. 

Brave idols, ruined by harsh hand of time, 
call out my name with ache of divine minds 
each time I drive past library of ghosts 
on my way to work in the marble bank 
where I map beauty of this world in tales 
that hide where saints and martyrs party wild. 

Caress porphyry heart of robot god 
to wake his passion with systemic code 
since we inscribe our secret fantasies 
on marble plates erected along walls 
which may reveal clandestine parables 
that always fool the poor to strive for wealth. 

Water Sings About Life

Water Sings About Life
© Surazeus
2026 08 16

The intense way water sings about life 
may seem strange to the human without ears 
who steals pieces of the puzzle from death 
to build collective bridge of happiness 
so wanderers may cross the dark abyss 
that proves the blue sky always understands. 

Inhaling frantic hope to evade death, 
Marcella runs along the dusty road 
forever toward the house of broken doors 
till she floats up into the lattice sky 
and hangs suspended from hand of the tree 
that laughs with crack of thunder when she wakes. 

Whatever she says to the humble wall, 
that readjusts itself with shifting words, 
may vanish in sad silence of new books 
that no one ever reads till end of time, 
yet someone always knocks on her front door 
with jar of something they would like to sell. 

Elected to manage the farming town 
her ancestors colonized with the gun, 
Marcella runs the world from city hall 
by selling water from the serpent well 
as if heroic deeds are eulogized 
by the glass-faced princess of everywhere. 

After filling one hundred books with words 
that hum with laughter of the summer rain, 
Marcella walks around the broken house 
one thousand times to find the secret door 
that leads her to the room of howling wind 
as if she could reverse the curse of fate. 

When she floats in the great ocean at dawn 
to become drop of water in the flood 
that cleanses excess sorrow from the land, 
she finds her darkness enclosed in her heart, 
yet still Marcella weaves new coronet 
from thorn-sharp stems of roses she must wear. 

Selling gold coffin of the vampire god 
to the movie star who always plays king, 
Marcella gathers sunlight with frail hands 
in brave experiment to fool cruel death, 
but children never come home from their school 
so she lies under bridge of fate and cries. 

Based on how hungry people calculate 
pride through manufactured nobility, 
Marcella counts the many shades of blue 
that gleam from restless sorrow of sea waves 
so she can frame the nothingness of death 
with beautiful romance tales no one lives. 

No Faithful Penelope

No Faithful Penelope
© Surazeus
2026 08 16

Far removed from mundane concerns of life, 
Emma floats in cloud of beautiful thoughts, 
envisioning how people interact 
with creative wisdom of selfless love 
to help each other grow and thrive in joy, 
though men drop bombs on the town where she lives. 

Crouching low as she glides along brick walls 
to avoid explosions of sharp debris, 
Emma slips into the small grocery store 
where she buys butter, flour, eggs, and milk, 
then swipes her credit card with grateful grin, 
and hurries home to bake bread for the week. 

If time dissolves her happy memories, 
Emma sits at the piano and plays 
hymns her grandmother taught her how to play 
long before the days of exploding bombs, 
and sings as if this hour of strange despair 
may be the last she sings with bitter joy. 

Safe in lush garden of Hesperides, 
Euterpe plays the lyre of Mercury 
while Epicurus shows with diagrams 
how things are formed from atoms in the void, 
then she eats apple slice on toasted bread 
and listens to drone of planes in the sky. 

Painting people without faces or souls 
in orthodox religious-icon style, 
Emma hums and pets her frightened cat 
as buildings shake from blasts of falling bombs, 
then paints silver planes that blind angels fly 
dropping bombs on cathedral of her faith. 

When sly Petryshko arrives with warm beer, 
that he swiped from unmanned gas station store, 
Emma lounges with him on the back porch, 
and asks if he will tell her once again 
about his youthful trip to Pakistan 
where he hiked the Hindu Kush mountain range. 

Explosion from eyes of the laughing ghost 
knocks both of them stunned on the thirsty grass, 
so Emma cradles his head in her lap 
and smiles through tears at how his silver eyes 
gaze joyfully blank at Heaven of hope 
where he plays chess with Gabriel in the park. 

Since I am no faithful Penelope, 
waiting in vain for my Odysseus 
to return with wounded heart from noble war, 
Emma whispers alone beside his grave, 
I will not write your name on the wood cross 
that marks where you lie in my secret heart. 

Journey To Our Goals

Journey To Our Goals
© Surazeus
2026 08 15

Though shapes of words have lost their glistening 
from over-thoughts of motionless desire, 
my voice molds fluid disbelief from light 
in solid symbols of harmonious truths 
concealed in potent melodies of faith 
designed by skeptics to describe our souls. 

There comes no time when we should cease our walk 
through empty shadows of our endless minds 
because we love to feel assertive force 
of constant motion when our blood flows hot 
through pulsing clock of timeless memories 
that motivate our journey to our goals. 

Still far across this nameless wilderness 
of wind-swept hills, where rivers silverate 
oppressive sorrows that would trap our hearts, 
we strive to overcome dire obstacles 
with heart-enchanting songs of timeless truth 
that bleeds from golden sunset gleam of fear. 

Without attentive focus of our hearts 
on distant gleam of Heaven beyond time, 
we might now wander lost in Somewhere Land 
except for guidance of the cloud-bold hand 
that gestures omens of our providence 
forth ever at elliptic blare of winds. 

Strange empire of steel towers sprouts from graves 
where bones of our ancestors sing of faith 
in wake of our progressive journey west 
that rises tall from humble homes we build 
till sermon of our free democracy 
rings clear on duty-darkened mountainsides. 

Through ceaseless motion of transcendent strife 
our vision dominates old tyrant states 
with principles of liberty and justice 
for every person born from womb of hope 
till tyranny sprouts from our bitter hearts 
at shock of horror from our power trips. 

Hearts twisted back in devil-tangled fear 
at quick expansion of conceptual games 
that crowds vast chess board of our social state 
with players who disrupt course of success, 
we vainly raise harsh legal laws of fate 
in weak attempt to fortify our state. 

When Orpheus leads us from the Underworld 
with soul-stirring anthem of noble pride 
for deeds our ancestors accomplished well, 
we hold hands with our faceless energies 
in bid to rise from cave of primal rage 
so we dance free in forest of fruit trees. 

Ghosts Of River Stones

Ghosts Of River Stones
© Surazeus
2026 08 15

Because golden butterfly of my heart 
still inhabits timeless Arcadia, 
untouched by concerns of urbanity, 
I summon ghosts of river stones with song 
that swirls from abyss of my aching heart 
to form stars that dream my eternal self. 

Awake through epiphany of this hour, 
my mind invents mundane significance 
that never exists in atomic things 
so I assign weird names to things I see 
which helps us understand how we should feel 
as we stroll shyly among the fruit trees. 

This Nature we perceive as pure and good 
our brains invent from scattered memories 
that we assemble into grand world view 
so we can celebrate his vibrant being 
which generates our conscious sense of self 
as our bodies thrive in matrix of dream. 

We strip dreams of external reference 
so they will bend upon themselves in wings 
of weird songs we express with pulsing breath 
through brave intention to become our words 
when state of emptiness negates our will 
that fuels feedback loop of positive love. 

Thus we pursue alternative venues 
through clever maneuver of leaping laughter 
that hollows our exploding hearts of fear 
so we declare great things we dare achieve 
when we become moonlight in leafless trees 
that knows where we will lie down when we die. 

Awed on high mountain of pastoral peace, 
I gaze at vast metropolitan maze 
where countless towers, built of steel-framed glass, 
glimmer eerily with electric lights 
which emanate weird psychedelic glow 
as heaven our ancestors never envisioned. 

Inspired by beauty in this maze of towers, 
frantic seismograph of my eager heart 
transcribes in arcane riddles of respect 
conceptual gyre of psychic lunacy 
that oscillates between spirit and flesh 
to weave complex paradigm of new myths. 

Empyrean vision of my dreamless brain 
compiles all human myths of clever gods 
through sensual verity of psychic tones 
so I multiply myself with human masks 
that wakes every soul who has ever lived 
in temporary node of my god brain. 

Nothing More Than Moonlight

Nothing More Than Moonlight
© Surazeus
2026 08 15

To achieve fullness of being alive 
through tense serenity of nothingness, 
Godith hums wordless melody of angst 
in eerie tones of mist-enshrouded woods 
that wake ghosts of the dead from tombless graves 
while waulking woolen cloth with her bare feet. 

Engaged through spiritual apprenticeship 
in learning wordless songs of ancient stars, 
Godith gathers flowers from foggy glen 
where ravens name things that do not exist 
with sepulchral voice of aesthetic truth 
that seeks to purge the heart of artifice. 

This stone she holds in callused hand of faith 
is no revelation of hidden meaning 
beyond mind-expanding epiphany 
that glows with presence of the timeless hour 
when Godith wakes from suddenness of love 
with modern impulse to name everything. 

Through maximum expression of the self 
that contains multitudes of unnamed souls, 
and minimum conflation of the self 
dissolved in purity of aching song, 
Godith transcends both opposites to float 
along continuum of being awake. 

Annoyed that she must express ache of hope 
with human language in limiting words, 
Godith affirms force of assertive aim 
to name mindless things with word of insight 
that causes things to glow with cosmic mind 
so she creates her person with sly speech. 

As she approaches far vanishing point 
that separates immediate sense of self 
with timeless vibrancy of divine thought, 
Godith reduces singularity 
of our vast world to garden of her heart 
where things exist because she gives them names. 

Confined within conceptual walls of speech, 
where spirit of her brain frames with bold words 
elusive reference of ideal truth, 
Godith binds fluid memories of time 
with linear narrative for acts she plays 
as she performs her role in game of life. 

While gazing at moonlight shining through trees, 
Godith attempts to design metaphor 
relating peaceful glow of silent light 
to how her body feels with pulse of hope, 
but she decides with laughter of calm faith 
the moonlight is nothing more than moonlight. 

Star As The Suffering Man

Star As The Suffering Man
© Surazeus
2026 08 15

Despite strange joy of reawakening, 
through struggle to transcend egg of the mind, 
James stumbles half awake in mirrored hall 
where shadow of his non-existent ghost 
explains new formulas for gaining wealth, 
since we succeed despite our messy lives. 

Though Death stalks our steps from day of our birth, 
we ignore dark shadow of final doom, 
James mumbles at reflection of his soul, 
then drinks orange juice from skull of Nemesis 
whose letters keep arriving in the mail 
long after she climbed cliff of happiness. 

Or did she fall into wild sea of change, 
James ponders as he drinks coffee of hope, 
then stands in drizzle on the asphalt street 
to wait for the bus full of nameless ghosts 
who ride along Plutonian shore of fate 
to work all day in clanking factories. 

Perhaps they will make commercial of faith 
in which I star as the Suffering Man, 
James smirks while swallowing aspirin pills 
to numb terrible pain that threads his soul 
with humbling anguish of the devil laugh 
that strips his spirit of its proverb shield. 

Adjusting screws with sprocket of his heart, 
contrary to alignment check of faith, 
James assembles car engine of desire 
to build time machine that carries our souls 
faster across unmeasured space of fear 
so we can find elusive pots of gold. 

Strolling down Seventh Avenue at dusk 
past flashing neon signs that lure his heart 
to smokey bars where country angels dance, 
James notices the white horse of his fate 
floats huge beside him on wings of desire, 
so he decides to run for President. 

Proclaiming new agenda of his heart 
before huge crowd of people in the hall, 
James outlines steps of action he will take 
supporting businesses with tax incentives, 
then waves as thousands chant his name with pride, 
since we succeed despite our messy lives. 

After he loses on election night, 
rejected by the people of the land, 
James sits in wood chair by the mountain lake 
catching fish with Jesus Christ at his side 
as they plot revolution of the rich 
to enslave the people with credit debt. 

Dynasty Of Cloud-Born Gods

Dynasty Of Cloud-Born Gods
© Surazeus
2026 08 14

Tickled by how often people will claim 
they are descended from some royal chief, 
I hide my own bloodline from jeweled crowns 
to prove I am more farmer that court clown, 
for hungry people digging in thick dirt 
outnumber people lounging on gold clouds. 

Flight far of anguished hearts on raven wings 
expends fraught energy my soul would save 
for braving storms of spirit-wounding words 
against stone wall of paradise I build 
to guard my frail mind from oppressive greed 
when hordes of hungry wanderers steal fruit. 

Impulse to build strong castle of high walls 
drives me to carve huge stones from jagged cliffs 
and stack my sorrows straight in measured lines 
that block aggressive theft of sacred fruit 
so I fight thieves with sword I forge from fear 
to found brave dynasty of cloud-born gods. 

All humans, equal in hunger to eat 
nutritious fruit that sprouts from pungent soil, 
start game of power on similar ground, 
but some succeed in producing more fruit 
they sell for coins of metal stamped with pride 
to crown themselves brave kings with right to kill. 

All people alive today on spinning Earth 
descend from more successful clans who guard 
productive fields of crops and groves of trees 
through strict cooperation in their roles, 
well-organized by wisest of their group 
who manages their family institute. 

We are descendants of successful thieves 
who work together to construct high walls 
surrounding garden where they follow rules 
designed to manage individual will 
with shared needs of communal fortitude, 
or risk getting expelled from paradise. 

If you find royal kings in jeweled crowns 
high in lofty court of your family tree, 
remember they kill threats to their state power 
when they eradicate the hungry poor 
so their children populate empty farms 
to colonize Earth with superior ways. 

We are descendants of those wealthy gangs 
who build stone castles from bones of dead gods, 
then force the poor to worship reverently 
mortal man who founded their dynasty 
as God incarnate on Earth in his son 
so they claim right to rule our humble lives. 

Library Shelf Of My Heart

Library Shelf Of My Heart
© Surazeus
2026 08 14

When I follow John to Strawberry Fields 
forever on the signless road of faith, 
he shows me new tomb where Orpheus lies, 
so I turn on tape recorder of truth 
to record prophecies his skull decries 
which sound like whispers of the wind in leaves. 

Once I figure out secret code of gods, 
I look for John, whose wizard glasses gleam 
with television screens, to ask him why 
humans believe they are angels in flesh 
who have fallen from changeless realm of Heaven, 
and live stuck in these fragile mental forms. 

Since John is Christ in the sycamore tree, 
who waits for Homeless Prophet of Lost Faith 
to pass by on foot-worn Yellow Brick Road, 
I wander over to the grocery store 
where Walt and Allen study hieroglyphs 
carved in formulas of fate on glass doors. 

Wearing mask of Joker for Halloween, 
John gives me brand-new Cinderella dress, 
so we hold hands and knock on fear-locked doors, 
smeared with blood of the sacrificial lamb, 
then Cybele invites us in to eat 
cookies and ice cream from the Holy Grail. 

Before midnight bells toll for nameless ghosts, 
we catch the crosstown bus to Neverland 
where John learns how to shoot the blunderbuss 
before I bake four and twenty blackbirds 
in dainty dish King Richard never eats 
since he gives bread and honey to the poor. 

When John in white robe of the desert hermit 
asks me to imagine the world as one, 
no Heaven above us, no Hell below, 
I cook delicious meals of healthy hope 
at the elementary school of the brave 
who try to escape on the Ship of Fools. 

If we are not who we pretend to be, 
we can wear mask of who we want to play, 
so John writes names of the dead in his book 
he hides on library shelf of my heart 
while human empires rise and fall in waves 
of social revolutions against greed. 

When John wakes from weird dream on Penny Lane 
that he incarnates soul of Odysseus, 
he finds me selling poppies from gold tray 
because I feel as if I am in the play 
where Hamlet gives me letters of his love, 
so I gather flowers by the River Styx. 

World Money Empire

World Money Empire
© Surazeus
2026 08 14

Though clouds of revolutionary change 
glow gold above vast maze of city streets, 
we go about our business to maintain 
social structures founded on principles 
that all human beings are created equal 
while homeless angels wander streets at dawn. 

Network of water pipes beneath our streets 
gleam with blood from the holy lamb of faith 
to weave our bodies in communal dream 
where homeless angels by telephone poles 
prophesy fall of our World Money Empire 
as Greed and Death play chess games for our souls. 

Hephaestus extracts from caves of desire 
minerals for constructing time machines 
which we all drive on highway of ambition 
in race across the waste land of blind ghosts 
for who arrives at the Promised Land first 
where Faceless God on throne of judgment sleeps. 

Sitting at his right hand in castle court, 
Jesus nudges Jupiter with left hand 
so bearded deity splutters awake 
from weird dream where he rides the Horse of Troy 
in brave bid to unite nations of Earth 
in World Money Empire of social pride. 

Thus shall we deem the victors of world war 
secret agents of Old Man in the Cloud 
who laughs at fierce games of humanity 
over who controls fruitful Tree of Knowledge 
uprooted by brave investors to build 
shopping mall where clowns entertain our kids. 

Though Phoebus attempts to organize facts 
in coherent world view that can account 
for every effect from assertive cause, 
which allows us to predict clear results, 
he almost loses sight of his main goal 
through messages from opposed institutes. 

There never has been one center of power 
around which all humanity may work 
through common focus on shared social growth, 
which leaves good angels homeless in the streets 
where they sit on the marble steps of fate 
with all their possessions in paper bags. 

As President of our World Money Empire, 
Jehovah plays golf in Elysian Fields 
with Krishna, Shangdi, and Odin in game 
for who will control hungry human souls 
who labor to maintain their dignity 
till their bodies fertilize crops of wheat. 

Misty Hills Of Verturia

Misty Hills Of Verturia
© Surazeus
2026 08 13

Home to misty hills of Verturia 
my heart guides me through tangled woods of time 
where I build fortress of stone on the mound 
heaped over bones of my ancestral soul 
where I pluck gold crab apples from long limbs 
to ferment honey cider in clay jars. 

Wrapped in deer-skin gown of cozy warmth, 
Eithni sits on square stone of honest faith 
and stirs bubbling honey cider of truth 
in old dented cauldron of burnished brass 
that emanates sweet scent of pungent hope, 
safe in misty hills of Verturia. 

Lost in misty hills of Verturia, 
young Eardwulf, dressed in bear-fur cloak and hood, 
wanders tangled woods of crab apple trees 
to find cove where he left his small wood boat, 
then stumbles in small ring of standing stones 
where green-eyed woman stirs cauldron of juice. 

Without concern for what may not be real 
in vibrant swirl of floating moon-white mist, 
Eardwulf kneels on wet grass before her seat 
and offers bag of hazelnuts with smile 
of calm sincerity from humble hope, 
brave in misty hills of Verturia. 

Tense in misty hills of Verturia, 
Eithni squints through dim haze of pulsing smoke 
to analyze with cautious dread of pain 
parameters of safety he provides, 
then fills his wood cup with delicious juice, 
and roasts nuts in soft crackling flames of trust. 

When Eardwulf curls to sleep in chilly wind, 
Eithni holds blade of sharp obsidian 
pressed to his neck to check his danger state, 
but when he opens eyes, and stares at her, 
he grins and kisses her with tender care, 
calm in misty hills of Verturia. 

Lithe in misty hills of Verturia, 
Eithni clasps his head and thigh in delight 
as their bodies writhe in tense ecstasy, 
embraced with creative passion of love, 
then cuddle blushing with pleasure of trust 
as they teach each other their secret names. 

Weaving vines around ring of standing stones, 
Eardwulf constructs secure shelter of faith, 
so Eithni guides their hunt in wooded vale 
to kill wild boar and fill bags with herbs, 
then hum in harmony to eat and kiss, 
home in misty hills of Verturia. 

Whole Symmetry Of Accuracy

Whole Symmetry Of Accuracy
© Surazeus
2026 08 13

In arts of poetry and cartography 
I love whole symmetry of accuracy, 
so I arrange lithe words in sentences 
and adjust points and lines in feature sets 
to better represent reality 
in virtual model that mirrors our world. 

Through migrant ache of curiosity 
for mandatory training of the heart, 
my mind explores strange contours of our world 
with intense focus on each graceful curve 
defining bounds of each material form 
so I sense essence glowing from its core. 

Assertive passion of the humble heart, 
which motivates my mission to create 
time-animated atlas of world history, 
fuels steady progress of detailed exams 
to reassemble fractured dreams of truth 
in pulsing globe of conscious entities. 

Through strict arrangement of fraught elements 
containing concepts of personal growth, 
I channel pain to laughter of sweet song 
by rising up from crippling angst of fear 
to dance on frantic wings of grief-bought joy 
and thus transform rage to enlightenment. 

Once I expand scope of my consciousness 
beyond limits of the Underworld cave, 
I transform my soul from Orcus of Greed 
to Orpheus of Knowledge that mute death 
is final dissolution of the soul 
when its programming brain disintegrates. 

How passionately with ache of glowing eyes 
we temporary beings of hungry flesh 
strive to transcend our transient state of being, 
as if we clumps of atoms could evade 
finality of death, when we arrange 
tales of survival in religious creeds. 

When paternal seed sparks maternal egg, 
genetic code provides strict blueprint 
for hope to organize material sparks 
so pattern of our corporeal success 
shapes matter in body-evolving form 
as we strive to become the God we worship. 

As one artificial world generator 
of many who have designed our world view, 
I organize tales of heroic deeds 
in virtual model of our changing world 
to illustrate timeless character tropes 
who provide template for us to live well.