Choir Of Lost Wanderers

Choir Of Lost Wanderers
© Surazeus
2026 04 27

To raise my hand against the roaring ocean 
I search for sacred diamond of my heart 
that spirals from core of the universe 
so I can discern truth among the lies 
which guides my journey from land of my birth 
to visit every country on the Earth. 

My heart may never settle in one land 
or take root in rich soil beside some river, 
since my ancestors never stayed for long 
in any valley where their fruit trees bloom, 
for someone always drives them from their land 
so they wander on before they get stuck. 

Before roots bind us to this fertile land, 
so we are trapped in cage of paradise, 
we pack our memories in wagon of hope 
and journey onward down the signless road 
to spin four wheels of fortune with tall tales 
and find another vale to live a while. 

Forever immigrant on restless feet, 
fueled by incessant swirl of ocean waves, 
as landless refugee driven away 
by thieves who colonize farms my fathers built,  
and pilfer fruit from trees my mothers tended, 
I follow star of my heart far from Heaven. 

Though I never feel at home in my country, 
since every land where my ancestors dwell 
becomes cemetery where they bones cry, 
I plant fruit seeds on every river shore 
to build ten thousand towns in fertile vales, 
so my home becomes wherever I roam. 

My body sprouts from sorrow of the Earth, 
and my soul writhes from passion of the Sea, 
as I weave wings from feathers of fallen angels 
with mission to transcend bounds of my flesh, 
inspired by luminous phantom of love, 
so I explore the rich world till Death finds me. 

My raised hand strums waves of the roaring ocean 
that ring with vibrant music of lyre strings 
so I can translate her maternal song 
to verse in every language of the Earth 
in hopes that homeless people of the world 
may sing psalms in choir of lost wanderers. 

Now every country in the world is mine 
since I am home in every land I walk 
for all the world is abode of my soul, 
safe shelter where I nest with gracious strangers 
who feed my heart for tales I sing to them, 
then we bid farewell as I journey on. 

Timeless Lyre Of Mercury

Timeless Lyre Of Mercury
© Surazeus
2026 04 27

Since I have accomplished work of my life, 
composing epic of philosophers 
to glorify deeds of searchers for truth 
through tradition of Academia, 
then you may take my hand, beautiful Death, 
and carry me to lush Elysian Fields. 

There I shall lounge for all eternity 
on orchard shores beside the River Styx, 
and strum the timeless lyre of Mercury 
to sing enchanting verses of my heart 
that form Astarian Scriptures I compose 
with you beside me in dream of our tale. 

Beneath veils of purple Wisteria, 
that scent sweet air from bower of our home, 
we chat about strange stories of mankind 
while through sun-glowing flowers bee-wings drone 
that fertilize my heart with timeless truth 
through deep analysis of social games. 

When they arrive on boat that Charon rows 
across the ceaseless tide of life and death, 
I call names of the Lost Ones killed in wars 
though they were scattered far across waste lands, 
so they relax in temple of our hearts 
and drink elixir of old memories. 

Cold as bright moon-rainbow of aching truth, 
ghosts of the countless dead in ring of stones 
dance gracefully with timeless dream of faith 
while skeletons of bodies rot in soil 
to nurture roots of fruit trees up on Earth 
where children find treasures in shadowed woods. 

Feet bleeding from our quest to find the cave 
from which First Mother birthed the human race, 
we climb the winding rocky trail of hope 
to break fetters of slavery and despair 
on endless journey to the Promised Land 
with nothing but tools in our crafting hands. 

Though it seems goodness of the crowded world 
has withered from harsh traumatic abuse 
we suffer struggling to survive each day, 
we give each other fruit we steal from Hell 
and build new Heaven with courageous hands 
so our children inherit paradise. 

When I rot mutely in tomb of my heart, 
Death may call homeless people of the world 
to gather in my mausoleum hall 
and feast on fruit from the generous Earth 
while skull of Orpheus prophecies truth 
and I play lyre of Mercury with sass. 

Old Song His Father Sang

Old Song His Father Sang
© Surazeus
2026 04 27

Small pony gallops on the river shore 
with casual nonchalance of happy hope 
to find the celestial pear tree of truth 
and feast on transient beauty of this world 
while Phoebus plays worn lyre of Mercury 
and sings the same old song his father sang. 

"Regret should not rule how we live each day," 
Phoebus explains to the gold yarrow bloom, 
but sighs and leans against the tall pear tree 
as aching sorrow settles on his heart, 
heavy as river stone no man can move, 
longing to sing old song his father sang. 

Dozing half-asleep in warm late-spring sun, 
Phoebus feels presence of shimmering ghost 
whose long gold hair wraps his mind in soft web, 
so he reaches out his attentive hand 
to caress glamorous haze of her face 
and wakes to see her leaning over him. 

Clear face of Cassandra with dark gold eyes 
fills the whole sky with gleam of her skin, 
so Phoebus stretches and offers her pears, 
then strums strings of worn lyre with inspired hope 
and sings heart-enchanting melody of love 
while she eats fruit with juice-glistening lips. 

Embraced with passion of the turning world, 
Phoebus and Cassandra kiss with delight, 
weaving spirit threads of their pulsing minds 
through shimmering web of the universe, 
which expands scope of compassionate faith 
till they become one soul of nameless joy. 

Setting Cassandra on pony of trust, 
Phoebus leads them along the winding stream 
while she bears basket of pears on her lap, 
toward the large market town on the lake shore 
where she sells pears while he strums taut lyre strings 
to practice same old song his father sang. 

Glowing with pleasure of living their day, 
Phoebus takes hands of Cassandra in his 
so they dance together on the lake shore 
while everyone gathers in temple hall 
to feast and laugh, till they all hush with hope 
to hear Phoebus sing song his father sang. 

"We are frail flowers blooming from the Earth 
who scatter seeds of our souls in the soil 
so our children will bloom from womb of time, 
for, though our bodies may flourish, then wither, 
in seasons of change for thousands of years, 
we are born again in children of love." 

Green Law Of The Tree

Green Law Of The Tree
© Surazeus
2026 04 26

Still inspired by old green law of the tree, 
I send my roots into darkness of fear 
to transform pain into apples of hope 
so I expand scope of my consciousness 
unhindered by bounds of the universe, 
that grants me passage through winter to spring. 

Though naked branches of my spirit tree 
shake in bitter winds of world social change, 
I welcome gulls who fly in from the sea 
with diamonds of wisdom from secret caves 
where Hecate brews wine from dragon blood 
that gives my eyes power to see beyond. 

I proudly ride head of Leviathan 
when she emerges from Ocean of Dreams 
to give my apparition mask of faith 
so I may walk on water of my heart 
to expose beauty through its ugliness 
when profound horror of time gives me life. 

Great Mother of Visions with hands of light 
quickens my heart with passion for truth 
so I honor Genetrix of the Earth 
who urges tides of love to swell my mind 
so I lounge in seductive revery 
with you in shadow of our solitude. 

Drinking milk disbursed by mother of stars, 
I twirl with abandon inside Stonehenge 
from careless laughter at absurdity 
till I see shining lady on the hill 
who scatters seeds from green law of the tree 
so we may colonize the world with farms. 

For good of the people who trust my word 
I serve their needs with magic mysteries 
to nurture hidden talents into skills 
so everyone contributes to our cause 
to enhance our food-production machine 
with power of ideas in the heart. 

Mothering Angels with eyes full of stars 
teach us how to sing visions of our eyes 
so we sharpen sticks and gather sharp stones, 
prepared to fight with courage of respect 
by waging war to secure global peace 
while bees brew honey for the world to eat. 

Though loneliness glimmers in hollow hearts 
of people who lose people they love most, 
bright anguish they pour in absence of faith 
sprouts back to life from green law of the tree 
which blossoms holy fruit for us to share 
so we transform our sorrow to rich joy. 

Tangled Dreams Of Fear

Tangled Dreams Of Fear
© Surazeus
2026 04 26

When angel of my heart burns through the sky 
with absolute desire to know the truth, 
she weaves my mind from tangled dreams of fear 
to strengthen me with brave audacity 
so I may climb ambitious peak to touch 
primal light of the sun that knows my name. 

Through prism of each raindrop on soft leaves 
I see electric raven with gold eyes 
who asks me if I know name of each soul 
killed by men with greed past million years 
so I carve letters of their vanished minds 
in shifting sands of time on beach of fate. 

Time-flashing rays of light from crystal eye, 
which dreams at center of the swirling sun, 
weave my body with atoms of respect 
for I am spirit of the Earth in flesh 
who seeks to understand nature of light 
that glows as consciousness from my sponge brain. 

Deep in temple of Karnak at Luxor 
the star-eyed angel holds light in her hands 
that beams our souls to center of the Earth 
so we feel giant planet of our hearts 
dreaming through kaleidoscope of our eyes 
so we remember how our world was born. 

Electric angel with black velvet wings 
assembles shards of stories from old tales 
to align fragments of our memories 
in flowing puzzle of world history 
where name of every soul who ever lives 
gleams in tapestry on stone temple wall. 

Grasping my hands with sensitive concern, 
electric angel sings with haunting voice, 
"If I can prevent just one fragile heart 
from breaking into shards of aching sorrow, 
my temporary tenure on this Earth 
shall not be fruitless endeavor of faith." 

Though I cannot play God for anyone, 
though we are emanations of Earth Soul, 
I dare assert intention of respect 
to shine with luminous beauty of love 
while curled with you in privacy of trust 
so we generate life before we die. 

Unnoticed by microscopic device, 
composed with diesel fuel of diamond eyes, 
I give myself with anguish of desire 
to tantalizing faith in nothingness 
that sparks frail flame of my glowing soul 
though bitter storm looms black over our world. 

Ghosts Trapped In Wells

Ghosts Trapped In Wells
© Surazeus
2026 04 26

Associated works of trashed respect 
delude the brave to believe their strong souls 
need no wings to escape death. Ardent faith 
fails to frame fantasy with real thought codes 
as if sparrows are no longer realists 
who translate divine truth for troubadours. 

Fountains in city squares ask loyalists 
to find and map rebels on hidden roads. 
Mothers, who linger without tears in doors 
of vain hope, knit sweaters for the frail wraith 
weeping in the garden. Demons expect 
everyone to memorize their new roles. 

Mixed up with pieces of puzzles, unsolved 
by blind children who invent languages, 
my private words escape from fragile shells 
of subjective truth. I prefer to swim 
deep into blue silence of the Dream Sea 
to find your name tangled in cable wires. 

Therefore, fill my holy grail to the brim 
so I may drink blood from ghosts trapped in wells 
of serpentine runes. Death directs mute choirs 
of angels who perform as hostages. 
I like to study life forms that evolved 
fish to wingless angel, which designs Me. 

Exceptional skill in weaving stale words 
in vibrant tapestries of fairy tales 
traps the jester in quest to explain why. 
Yet the young policeman in the small town 
believes his mission to be just the same 
as the one Superman performs on stage. 

Since we are trapped in our commercial game 
of purchasing products from the grim clown, 
we will barbecue demons in the cage 
of honesty. Icarus learns to fly 
by jumping off the cliff of hungry whales 
who ask Jesus if he can make them birds. 

Reverse psychology will never work 
on flamboyant Bacchus in scarlet gown 
who cries in the kitchen. Electric clock 
that mutates above the castle fireplace 
sternly asks him why he abandoned Eve 
halfway up the mountain in freezing snow. 

While baking apple pies by shipping dock, 
Eve spies Bacchus who pretends not to lurk 
in the bookstore where he buys human face 
to fool the Furies. They attend the show 
starring the Ballerina and the Clown, 
yet no one in the audience wants to grieve. 

Ego Of Sly Pettiness

Ego Of Sly Pettiness
© Surazeus
2026 04 26

The strangest aspect about the Third Man, 
who lets cool rats play pool with his eyeballs, 
is how he paints planets on bowling balls, 
then stands outside gate of the factory 
and plays dissonate melodies of despair 
on broken guitar with five rusty strings. 

Embracing ego of sly pettiness 
through innate talent of the snarky jibe, 
the Third Man takes his face off in the glare 
of spotlights gleaming on the creaking stage, 
then shouts electric satire of despair 
in silent void above highways of cars. 

Empowered by negative interdicts, 
stones of contempt hurled with mocking insults, 
the Third Man tangles lines of sizzling words 
in tattered wings he found on jagged rocks 
by sea shore with eager Icarus fell, 
then pontificates on world theater stage. 

Stacking bricks of baked mud in pyramids 
on solid foundation of shifting sands, 
the Third Man builds cave in heart of the Earth 
where ghost of his ancestor with sharp stick 
fights monstrous dragon of the wounded soul, 
then barbecues burgers in the state park. 

Pretending he is not the seventh son 
who falls in love with fourth daughter of Death, 
the Third Man spreads honey on molded bread 
while bragging about every game he won 
till the butterfly girl in hippie skirt 
marries the banker who runs Babylon. 

Excited about joining the circus of clowns 
who tour country towns sea to shining sea, 
the Third Man milks the sad cow before dawn, 
then stands outside grocery stores to preach 
about the second coming of the king 
who will appear on the purple giraffe. 

Exhausted by attempts to fool the squares 
who live normal lives, working eight to five, 
the Third Man leans against greasy phone pole 
and watches cars zoom past for ninety hours 
till wise tortoise of the waste land arrives 
to teach him lessons in morality. 

The most boring thing about the Third Man, 
who sews secret messages inside shirts, 
is how he is an expert at spreadsheets 
and longs to work as the accountant clerk 
at the company that sells kitchen ware 
because his girlfriend who died loved to cook. 

Futile Hope For Liberty

Futile Hope For Liberty
© Surazeus
2026 04 25

When the black-necked crane of her wounded heart 
flaps mordantly above pale bare-limbed woods, 
Yi Soo-ah leans back in red leather seat 
and sighs with rattle of fast iron wheels 
in train that winds along the river shore 
far away from house where her mother died. 

Late winter shadows of high mountain peaks 
shroud valley of plum trees in thoughtful hope 
at haunting melody of the jade flute 
because she is unaccustomed to grief 
that guides her way along the unseen track 
outside classifiable frame of faith. 

Walking alone along the winding road 
among plum trees that rustle secret truths, 
Yi Soo-ah pauses by the cement bridge 
and gazes shocked at the car-wounded deer 
that trembles halfway down steep slope of weeds 
till she kneels and cries for its innocence. 

Though we exist in world of fragile souls, 
our hearts swell strong with bravery of fear 
at flash of silver clouds over bare trees, 
Yi Soo-ah whispers to the flowing stream 
that shimmers over time-smoothed stones of fate, 
yet wonders if the sparrow understands. 

Small sparrow with chestnut crown and gold wings 
explains that all organic bodies die 
but atoms forming frames of psychic force 
fall in soil where roots transform them to plums, 
so Yi Soo-ah plucks purple fruit of hope 
and gasps with pleasure to consume Rain Soul. 

Startled at sudden clatter in the woods, 
Yi Soo-ah backs against the power pole 
when older gray-haired man in prison suit, 
face and arms streaked with blood of urgent fear,  
stumbles on the road and falls to his knees, 
heart clanging with terror of wordless truth. 

Pressing thick blood-stained book of poetry 
in careful distress of her trembling hands, 
the gray-haired prisoner stares in her eyes 
with ache of longing that she understands, 
then flees into grim shadow of the woods 
when platoon of soldiers with guns appear. 

Wincing at gunfire and scream of despair, 
Yi Soo-ah runs dusty road into town, 
slouches on bench outside small grocery store, 
and drinks cold soda as she shakes from shock, 
then cries quietly as she reads his poems 
about his futile hope for liberty. 

Men Fight Brutal Wars

Men Fight Brutal Wars
© Surazeus
2026 04 25

With confidence great as the ocean wave 
Sylphus glides among the star-singing trees 
to consume apples in ruby-bright cave, 
then chats philosophy with honey bees 
to understand why men fight brutal wars 
which leaves women weeping behind locked doors. 

Alert to butterflies that drop steel bombs, 
Sylphus shrinks houses to models in crates, 
then frolics in meadow with laughing lambs 
in clever plan to fool killer robots 
who march in crusade under the Red Cross, 
enforcing strict rule that Jesus is Boss. 

Startled by shriek of the innocent crow, 
Sylphus builds safe shelters for refugees 
who pray and give thanks to the golden cow 
while binding books in empty libraries 
to hide from loathing of corporate kings 
who want to enslave the princess who sings. 

Astride white horse on the wild carousel, 
Sylphus leads angels to stop World War Three 
when tyrants fight for the Alphabet Well 
where serpent runes nominate Liberty 
as empress who judges what love is worth 
to support United Nations of Earth. 

Stopping in the snowless woods before dusk, 
Sylphus searches for ghost of Lucifer 
who wears my secret face as shaman mask, 
and sings on darkest evening of the year 
about heroic soul of suffering 
that wakes in hearts of every human being. 

Amazed at beauty of the mountain lake, 
Sylphus plots revolution of the just 
because we are no more than cosmic dust 
commissioned to expose tales of the fake, 
then joins his brothers on the fishing boat 
who tease him for his many-colored coat. 

Assigned the most difficult task of all, 
Sylphus codes social system for the state 
organized around the posh shopping mall 
because each person chooses their own fate 
while stumbling awkwardly on road of life, 
learning lessons in overcoming strife. 

With arrogance brave as the skittish cat, 
Sylphus rules the world in Tower of Eyes 
by analyzing facts gathered by spies 
who build glass idols of Jehoshaphat 
then eat pizza and watch fantasy shows 
contrived by wizards of dream studios. 

Her Smile Sparks My Heart

Her Smile Sparks My Heart
© Surazeus
2026 04 25

Because her smile sparks my heart to expand 
scope of conscious truth to include the world 
in brave attention of generous love, 
I dedicate my life to guard her life, 
protecting her body and soul from harm 
so she generates life before she dies. 

This noble principle of honest hope 
has been my goal for countless lives on Earth 
as I incarnate in new flames of flesh 
four hundred million years from fish to god 
in solemn project to nurture life 
so we continue to thrive till the end. 

In each new life, we spring from womb of hope, 
we face new obstacles on road of change 
that threatens to annihilate our souls 
and crush our genes to squirming worms in mud, 
so we breathe deep celestial soul of love 
as we transform to bright angel of joy. 

Strange sense of strong immortality 
vibrates in neural network of my brain 
that fools me to believe I may transcend 
this temporary frame of fragile flesh, 
but conscious sense of self I feel as me 
will vanish when this body rots to dust. 

Illusion that my soul lives after death, 
as self-contained sense of my conscious self, 
deceives my heart with blinding pride that I 
will resurrect from rotten corpse of faith 
because adults with desperate eyes of fear 
convinced me Jesus will raise us from death. 

While walking signless road in the waste land 
halfway across the Rocky Mountain range, 
returning east on road of desperate hope 
which my ancestors walked centuries ago 
to find the Promised Land out in the west, 
I realize we are nothing when we die. 

My conscious soul is function of my brain, 
powered by chemicals of primal light 
that flares forth from first flash of the big bang, 
my temporary sense of self sparked bright 
by immortal atoms of divine thought, 
so I will disappear after I die. 

Immortal soul of genes will generate 
new body from its code when we embrace 
to spark new life from energy of love, 
so though we die and disappear in wind 
our children will preserve immortal genes, 
at least till the sun burns Earth into ash. 

Star Stone Of Inspiration

Star Stone Of Inspiration
© Surazeus
2026 04 25

With no surprising ending to our song 
we wander blissfully along the ocean 
to gather sharp fragments of the star stone 
that streaked in shock across the shining heavens 
because celestial flames of divine love 
flicker inside their cores with soul salvation. 

Sweet graceful woman of our ocean tribe 
gazes in prophecy stone of perception 
where she dreams successful growth of our way 
transforming into empires of her vision, 
so we follow her dance on shifting sands 
when she mutates into the snow-white raven. 

Exhausted from our journey on stone paths, 
we rest beneath the Crying Elm of Sorrow 
which spreads broad canopy of gentle care, 
one of Four Trees of Earth that give us shelter 
from howling storm, that shatters crystal skies, 
swirling from bitter hatred of Rain Dragon. 

When lightning shatters Crying Elm to shards 
and blasts our paradise into cruel desert, 
we wander weeping in ruins of sand, 
hearts bleak with hungry fear of desperation, 
till raven woman of our ocean tribe 
raises high her Star Stone of Inspiration. 

Masking fear of death with bold bravery 
to hide arrogance of her trepidation, 
Pearl Raven Princess holding bright star stone 
guides our journey to recreate our future 
by changing our fate with each choice we make 
to focus our attention on creation. 

Grove of peach trees, heavy with ripe sun fruit, 
that blooms on lush shore of the singing river 
provides generous bounty as reward 
for strict discipline of our loving labor, 
so we build high stone walls of paradise 
to form from ruins of hell our new Heaven. 

Ten thousand years we cultivate peach trees 
that grow tall from Star Stone of Inspiration, 
transforming from village of humble homes, 
where workers thrive with calm communication, 
to vast metropolitan maze of streets 
where we drive cars in race of corporations. 

Programmed by ancient struggles to survive, 
based on experience of all my ancestors, 
I strive to create rather than destroy 
social system that drives civilization 
in global baby-production machine 
that guides us with Star Stone of Inspiration. 

Mirror Eye Of God

Mirror Eye Of God
© Surazeus
2026 04 24

When I gaze deep in mirror eye of God 
I see every soul who has ever lived 
on every planet in the universe 
since first flash flared forth into the White Whole 
for we are atoms shining in the void 
as we awake in neural nets of brains. 

While I gaze long in mirror eye of God 
I relive life of every conscious soul 
who struggles to overcome weaknesses 
and transcend limits of our mortal flesh 
to comprehend vastness of time and space 
for one short hour of timeless ecstasy. 

Floating faceless in mirror eye of God 
that gazes down at me on ball of dirt, 
I feel immensity of vibrant hope 
radiate from spiraling core of our world 
through emanation of unconscious light 
that sparks my soul awake inside my brain. 

Dancing wildly in mirror eye of God 
that gazes at the world through my small eyes, 
I sing soul-haunting melody of faith 
with joy that I am so alive this fleeting hour 
for my short span of shining consciousness 
though time will snuff my soul to nothingness. 

So I wear mask with mirror eye of God 
refracting psychic energy of love 
through flashing prism of my neural brain 
when I see you with kaleidoscope eyes 
integral part of our strange otherness 
as we embrace and kiss to know the truth. 

Now I dream you with mirror eye of God 
to frame our random wanderings in tale 
composed to spark romantic honesty 
that binds our bodies in tangle of love 
so we generate life before we die 
to live another million years in joy. 

Together bound by mirror eye of God, 
two souls from opposite sides of the world, 
we journey far across waste land of desire 
to build our own private Heaven in Hell 
so we tend garden of our paradise 
where our children play free in Wonderland. 

Souls reflected through mirror eye of God, 
nameless strangers giving each other names, 
we play our roles in drama of the world 
creating art that conjures from our dreams 
virtual model of strange reality 
before time erases us from our Earth. 

Tumult Of Distracting Lust

Tumult Of Distracting Lust
© Surazeus
2026 04 24

Clear concision of our unmeasured thought 
contains assertive chaos of desire 
that frames immaculate anxiety 
of strange vistas beyond imagining, 
succinct as subtle decibels that beam 
beauty through realm of possibilities. 

Diligent with disordered discipline, 
we order tumult of distracting lust 
which enflames boundless plains of purity 
where comets outline golden way of hope 
we follow with shameless analysis 
to admire abundance of honeyed spoils. 

Drenched with refraction of devout respect, 
that shimmers with fractals of vanities, 
we speak of pleasant hours from honesty 
through circumspection of unconscious art 
because we extract unknown quantities 
of precise wisdom based on chemistry. 

Disentangled from brave lucidity, 
according to assessments of impacts 
implied by habitual riddles of love, 
we wound each other with confounding codes 
achieved through reversal of nothingness 
that means some other thing we cannot solve. 

Precarious on brink of stated facts, 
we dare administer horror of joy 
tainted with indifference nature plays, 
genteel with graceful sadness of contempt 
considered logical through turbulence, 
polite with seething energy of hope. 

I turn away and gaze beyond my face, 
transfixed by stony stare of faceless ghosts, 
to watch historical events unfold 
with tumbling randomness of bitter fate 
through blazing star-eye of the universe 
as sweepstakes winner of the Afterlife. 

Cloaked with humility of well-earned pride, 
as brave epitome of butterflies, 
I sing enchanting hymn to long-dead gods 
with charmed cadence of storm-stirred ocean waves 
to break free from marble idol of Me 
with calm assertion of the wingless hawk. 

Lovers entranced by glamor-mask we wear, 
intimate with gentle laughter of faith, 
we strip away illusions we had made 
to find real essence of our Otherness 
we share by kissing in light of the moon, 
then tending herb garden just after dawn. 

Still Married To My Muse

Still Married To My Muse
© Surazeus
2026 04 23

Though forced to seek anew some fresher stamp 
presenting noble subject of my camp, 
I grant myself still married to my Muse 
who tempts me to adjudicate the news 
by daring to record destructive deeds 
through paintings that encode our psychic needs. 

My special nature, glorified by fate, 
traps me in curse to guard the jeweled gate 
against incursion proffered by lame thieves 
who limp from tomb where humble widow grieves 
from failed attempt to steal her loving eyes 
through vain expression hollow prayers devise. 

Since I alone in our vast universe 
am no one else but me, I purchase curse 
contrived to spoil alert equality 
against brave blessings from banality 
that we exchange by selling fantasies 
immured in confines of false dignities. 

Tongue-tied by praise of loyal characters, 
more precious to death than stale aquifers, 
I wield with bravery golden quill of truth 
to prove myself wise as unlettered sleuth 
when strangers clutching books of frantic tales 
ask me to solve problems cruel faith entails. 

In polished form of my soul-searing pen 
I measure tangled chaos love would win 
since urgent spirit animates my chord 
with solemn hymn no angel can afford, 
yet mortal pride of my too precious boast 
strands my broken heart on the storm-lashed coast. 

Full sail in ship of state my conscious steers, 
I will explore strange lands with my compeers 
who kneel astonished by clear mountain lake 
that their intelligence considers fake, 
enfeebled by familiar ghost of time 
who crowns as Emperor of Earth the mime. 

Clear charter of your worth excites my hope 
that Jupiter will teach me how to cope 
with undeserving richness of true love 
which flatters me with royal light above 
though I determine death erases all 
while we dance laughing in the waterfall. 

No better judgement could I render right 
than how we are acquainted with the night 
to prove we are as virtuous through faith 
as time-untwisting laughter of the wraith 
who recognizes power of my Muse 
whose weird spell may bomb of my heart defuse. 

Preserving Green Space

Preserving Green Space
© Surazeus
2026 04 23

Though hope creates sustainability 
from important design problem of faith, 
Carla walks quickly along city street 
past store fronts selling illusions of truth, 
ignoring crescent moon in the blue sky, 
intent on getting back to work on time. 

Scalable system for nationwide growth 
inspires Carla with passionate respect 
to outline methods for analysis 
which monitors biodiversity 
based on ascension of rickety stairs 
through frantic doors of cracked anxiety. 

Complex projects for preserving green space 
between old factories and shopping malls 
align with current operational modes 
which Carla plots for future management, 
designed to maximize living expense 
based on calculations of hunger strikes. 

Arranging data collected from fields 
about technical challenges of use, 
Carla tabulates random facts of fear 
which might untangle communal concerns 
for psychic erosion of social trust 
managed by flexible platforms of faith. 

Global datasets of spatialized scope, 
supplied by government warehouse of truth, 
provides Carla with conceptual regrets 
to shore against ruins of mental zones, 
constrained by progress of urban decay, 
where gangs of lost children prefer to play. 

Developing bold strategies to arrest 
regressive destruction of classic frames, 
Carla sketches ideal patterns of change 
that depict uncontrollable time flips 
with attentive focus on channeling 
forces of passion through productive law. 

Staring out office window of her heart 
at people walking up and down the street, 
Carla longs for ancient systems of life 
on communal farms along river shores 
where people first formed brave communities 
to help each other survive against death. 

Clutching bag full of documents and fears, 
Carla rides on the crowded city bus 
through the endless maze of buildings and parks, 
then drinks chamomile tea on futon couch 
and pets her kitten with alien eyes 
while she sketches fairies dancing in moonlight. 

Rubber Wheels Of Flight

Rubber Wheels Of Flight
© Surazeus
2026 04 22

Star angels seem to follow me around 
while I am driving on the busy road, 
adjusting speed of passionate desire 
to keep from hitting souls of other cars 
because we race endless circles of hope 
to catch the rainbow falling from the sky. 

My fingers dance on keyboard of weird spells 
to weave illusions that reflect the world 
of pulsing objects, formed of chemicals, 
that fool me into thinking I am God 
till Death erases my soul from the world, 
and all my atoms become other things. 

I watch the red light till it flashes green, 
then I assert my vain right to exist 
as metal shell on rubber wheels of flight, 
bright angel transformed to frail human being 
assigned strange name that honors long-dead god 
who drives with millions on vast maze of roads. 

Parking my car in garage of false fame, 
I walk with crowd of gods in human form 
to work all day in office of insight 
where I map multiverse of proxy worlds 
as half-aspects of one vast universe 
composing puzzle programmed from my dreams. 

Severe thought static, translating dream songs 
from tangled cantos of unique syntax 
trademarked by serpent of the well, expands 
scope of my conscious attention to facts 
encoded in moral tales of concern 
that invoke syndrome of unscheduled truth. 

Unlicensed lecture, expressed by shy god, 
shows me how to manage with legal jokes 
tense energy of our Daemonium 
who performs role with correspondent wit 
of Sign Giver who speaks with Inner Voice 
to guide my journey to the Promised Land. 

Excerpt of famished framework, glorified 
by solemn angel born from river stone, 
who appears to me as gleam of pure light, 
reveals entrapment trick they play on me 
till I escape high walls of paradise 
with one last apple full of fertile seeds. 

Through featured tropes of graphic interface 
I dare conceal strange program of my heart 
by which I forecast state of world affairs 
through clumsy assessment of bankrupt laws 
that helps me solve weird problem of my soul 
too beautiful for brokerage of death. 

Wise Spirit Of Anahita

Wise Spirit Of Anahita
© Surazeus
2026 04 22

Awake in gloaming of our endless day, 
with fierce impatience of the fractured moon, 
I measure wholeness of conceptual fields 
where hungry people tend vineyards of faith, 
and wait for Anahita to arrive 
with jar of water from her sacred pool. 

Her long black hair flowing in evening wind, 
Anahita walks among refugees 
from civil wars that destroyed family homes, 
and pours fresh water in cracked bowls of hope 
so they may drink sweet spirit of the Earth 
that resurrects their hearts from bleak despair. 

Assassins cloaked in blue suits of contempt 
surround brave goddess of water and health 
with evil intent to clamp her in chains 
and force her to kneel before Angra Mainyu 
in humble submission to his desire, 
but she defies his daevas with strong will. 

While Anahita fights daevas with courage, 
Ahura Mazda arrives on white horse, 
leading army of brave warriors with spears, 
they made from pines of Hara Berezaiti, 
who defend people of Assyria 
and protect wise Anahita from harm. 

Awake with wise spirit of Anahita, 
whose courage animates my heart with love, 
I fight destructive force of lies and hate, 
embodied by cruel tyrant in gold tower 
who tries to enslave people of the world 
as mindless workers in his factories. 

Her eyes gleaming bright yellow as topaz, 
Anahita stands on high ziggurat, 
wearing crown of Ishtar with humble pride 
and bearing wand of Inanna with love, 
to organize free peoples of the world 
law-bound in United Nations of Earth. 

Though Midas wrecks institutions of peace, 
and Pluto grasps at false rainbow of wealth, 
we join brave goddess of wisdom and truth 
to build Zarathia through Liberty 
from ruins of rapacious nation-states, 
ensuring justice and freedom for all. 

Though tyrants attempt with aggressive hate 
to destroy wise spirit of Anahita, 
collective energy of psychic power, 
that beams from heart of every soul on Earth, 
weaves matrix of our faith in shield of hope 
to support fertile goddess of our love. 

Purity Of Secret Names

Purity Of Secret Names
© Surazeus
2026 04 22

Elemental clarity of strange facts, 
based on physical solidness of flesh, 
renews psychic experience of the real 
combined with purity of secret names 
we utter as pure prayers of honest faith 
to conjure spirit of the best we are. 

Simple sentiment of our valid prayer 
denies significance buried in mud 
when name we utter with urgent concern 
conceals apprehension our brains adjust 
through imaginative bracketing of fate 
that sparks immanent transcendence of self. 

If my true self, expanding from my heart, 
coheres to object of essential being 
when I wear gold ring of reluctant faith, 
I flip attention of perceptive force 
with quaint discretion of the country road 
so objects I name vanish into dust. 

Through insistence of frantic ardency 
on primacy of the image, that mirrors 
real emotions seething in frames of thought, 
we package subjective feelings of hope 
till name and referent of truth collide, 
which conjures illusion we think is real. 

Whole operation of social control 
connotes feast of love we share in glass church 
so fluctuating time is overcome 
by fraught transfiguration we endure 
if the dead who have lost their sacred names 
dare return to the living without faith. 

If we return to lost wholeness of faith, 
contained within high walls of paradise, 
we may stain Garden of Eden with prayers 
while trapped by fortune within givenness 
of individual experience through spells 
that we record in books angels will burn. 

Entranced by mystic vision of my soul 
sparked awake by light of immortal stars, 
I stride jauntily over pulsing grass 
to mark scrupulous field of reference 
that maintains timeless meaning of our hearts 
fractured into particles of fake words. 

Since my brain is conduit for God Soul 
to express important concepts of truth, 
I scatter riddles of unshadowed stars 
when time folds dimensions of luckless fate 
through archaic technique of language games 
that free our bodies from religious faith. 

Madonna Of The Snows

Madonna Of The Snows
© Surazeus
2026 04 22

Sapphires in strong hands of Ithuriel 
reflect turquoise waters of mountain lake 
where specter of the rose blooms in his heart, 
so he kneels among frail Edelweiss blooms 
and drinks innocent spirit of the Earth 
while graceful swans float in crystalline light. 

Curving swan-necks of women in white robes 
arch with elegant form of timeless trees 
that drop apples and pears into their hands 
while their guardian angel Ithuriel 
protects their souls from wild wolves in dark woods, 
so they laugh and play with innocent grace. 

Bending among white Camellia shrubs, 
in satin dress that shimmers white as clouds, 
Titania caresses petals of hope 
and smiles with soft seductive gentleness 
at grim Ithuriel who wields sharp sword, 
yet ignores distraction of her blue eyes. 

Skin white as moonlight on smooth glacier ice, 
Titania twirls slow under willow tree 
so pearls against her breasts glitter with trust 
that Death, bedazzled by beauty of life, 
will pass her by beneath vast azure sky 
when she reaches her arm to pluck ripe pear. 

Beneath bright snow that gleams on river shore, 
Ithuriel finds ruby gem of love 
when heat of passion melts his heart with hope, 
so he retrieves bright jewel from hard Earth 
and offers it with humble reticence 
to Titania pretending to be shy. 

Dipping silver cup in cold fountain pool, 
Titania offers undine tears of lonely hope 
so grim Ithuriel accepts her gift 
and drinks chilly liquor of happiness 
while gazing at Madonna of the Snows 
whose fingers caress his hard blushing cheek. 

Flutter of Sphinx wings in cold gusting wind 
signifies approach, in wind-snapping cape, 
when Seraphita strides into the grove, 
silver tiara with seven sapphires 
radiating her royal authority, 
so Ithuriel bows before his wife. 

Retreating quickly to her small white boat, 
Titania rows across the turquoise lake 
while gazing with jealousy of false hope 
at vigorous guardian angel with sharp sword 
who steals adoring glance at graceful girl 
while bowing before Queen of Everywhere. 

Figures Of False Truth

Figures Of False Truth
© Surazeus
2026 04 22

Dire signs that adumbrate social collapse 
blind hearts of men with ciphers of star code 
which isolate bodies of frantic hope 
from our incognizant roses of wrath, 
so brave men pose as figures of false truth 
who wander stranded on the psychic moon. 

Intelligent inscriptions in dead books 
reveal bland prophecies of humble deeds 
performed by heroes with arrogant seeds 
designed to charge engines of farming trucks 
despite the broken light of autumn nights 
that scrambles riddles of national fates. 

If I imagine strangers on the street 
while pondering alone in doorless house, 
weird truth beats crow wings that excites the clown 
who conjures demons from the wood prayer bead 
which steals courtesy from soft hands of trees 
since world economy is based on bees. 

Savage powers at parties of the rich 
reclaim social machine of money games 
contrived by mad god of the River Thames 
who spends all day painting his picket fence 
to prove the universe of measured time 
derives from laughter of the selfless mime. 

White moon that gleams old words on river shore 
explains that every star I see in gloom, 
which scribes sacred maps on walls of my room, 
burned out long before my spirit was born, 
so when she rings the doorbell of my heart 
I buy one pear from her rickety cart. 

Unnoticed references that age each hour 
appear from swirling sea of honesty 
as brave leviathan with crystal key 
which opens huge door of my mental tower 
with unexpected passion that love feigns 
to order waves of thoughts in tangled lines. 

Since Death teaches me art of minstrelsy, 
I sing conceptual hymns of wounded souls 
who writhe as serpents in innocent wells, 
therefore men must learn art of chivalry 
from gallant Cave Bear, tamed by Socrates, 
so they can rule their empire colonies. 

Folk music from the vinyl record chinks 
with earnest passion of the suffering man 
about how life flows swift as hour-glass sand 
in vain attempt to counter social jinx 
cast with mute fear by figures of false truth 
who seek divine answers in mundane math.