What You Leave Undone

What You Leave Undone
© Surazeus
2026 07 21

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ocean Shore Of Nevertime

Ocean Shore Of Nevertime
© Surazeus
2026 07 21

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Zen Flash Of God-Eyes

Zen Flash Of God-Eyes
© Surazeus
2026 07 20

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yet Flowers Still Blossom

Yet Flowers Still Blossom
© Surazeus
2026 07 20

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Welcome To My Home

Welcome To My Home
© Surazeus
2026 07 20

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fragile Boats Of Hope

Fragile Boats Of Hope
© Surazeus
2026 07 19

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gothic Armor Of My Heart

Gothic Armor Of My Heart
© Surazeus
2026 07 19

Still alive on land ripe with certainties, 
I draw dividing line of innocence 
straight between reason and insanity 
so can I taste truth through infinity 
and stop where calm wind erases despair 
to convert guilt into hope without luck. 

Removing gothic armor of my heart, 
as grim prizefighter wounded by the word 
my grandmother speaks outside prophecy, 
I weed old Garden of Gethsemane 
where skulls of prophets sing without dream code 
that guides my way through epochs of world power. 

No shallow mercies of the castle court 
reveal source of iron in stringent caves 
where demons no longer haunt dreams of seers, 
so I design new theme for Wonderland 
that might attract the summer tourist crowd 
who love to watch Death judge the deeds of fools. 

Entranced by weird Saronic blue of time 
that shimmers on the timeless sea of truth, 
I wander somewhere in Arcadia 
beyond fictional framework of the map 
along the signless road of nowhere else 
to dwell in mountain temple of dead gods. 

Soft cries of owls in woods of harmony 
expose electric glow of urgency 
that leads us to small mountain pool of stars 
where Pythagoras counts infinity 
contained in measurement of simple words 
programmed as formulas we code from fear. 

Smoke from my humble hearth of fantasy 
towers in luminous ghost of respect 
so I stand small and frail on river shore 
engulfed by grand immensity of time 
that wraps my heart with ancient ardency, 
filled with conscious mind of divinity. 

Strange darkness of the boundless night contrives 
to swell my heart with love for the sublime 
that gleams with pristine beauty of our words 
when we exchange solemn vows of true love, 
then return to our tower of romance 
before lightning strike shatters our world view. 

Though sunlit demons of faith animate 
our fragile bodies with unholy chime, 
we explore uncanny vales of liberty 
in line with ultimatum of soul fate 
which calculates how far we have to go 
to build foundation of our global state. 

Taste Sorrow Of The Moon

Taste Sorrow Of The Moon
© Surazeus
2026 07 18

If I stand outside in hot evening rain 
I can almost taste sorrow of the moon 
sweet as honey on peanut-buttered toast, 
but when gods of ancient societies 
arrive with tablets and bottles of wine, 
we dance all night to celebrate true love. 

I hear soft voice of sorrow in gray mist 
when young Theneva, pregnant with disgrace, 
arrives on boat of wisdom on my shore, 
so I give shelter to the wounded girl 
whose father hurled her from cliff of despair 
then cast her adrift on indifferent seas. 

How far across the swirling sea of hope 
must I sail bravely in frail ship of faith 
to find lost homeland of lush Ithaca 
where prim Penelope in ribboned gown 
weaves tapestry depicting noble deeds 
of warriors fighting for security. 

All questions about nature of this world 
have compiled code of wisdom in fraught verse 
recording ancient wisdom of wise fools 
who proffered answers about how things are, 
so I lounge mindlessly on my back porch, 
plucking rusty strings on my old guitar. 

Though Achilles, gone mad with grief of loss, 
destroyed the city full of families 
to rescue Helen from towers of love, 
Odysseus sailed against obsessive hate 
past obstacles of fear and bitter pride 
to restore the city where his wife rules. 

With baskets on arms of companionship, 
we gather strawberries, mushrooms, and eggs, 
along with lavender and eglantine, 
from sun-drenched meadows of sweet innocence, 
till we find Theneva wounded on grass, 
so we bear her to cave of healing care. 

Now that I know name of that faceless ghost 
who haunts my backyard after the sun sets, 
I translate voice of thunder in wild rain 
to analyze state of the human mind 
processing global conflicts with old myths 
that celebrate the hero who goes home. 

Though we seem lost in rugged hills of mist, 
wise Wotadinus raises wand of truth 
and calls our names so we may follow close 
attentive journey of his earnest quest 
to build safe home with walls of honest stone 
where sweet Theneva may tend apple trees. 

No Face To Mask My Soul

No Face To Mask My Soul
© Surazeus
2026 07 18

I sit down with the natural sight of gain, 
against simple tones of exploding trees 
eager for commitment, since my eyes move 
with twirling planets of lackluster faith, 
if wings of peaches flutter with the clock 
heavier than fake sorrow rendered mute. 

Discerned adjustment of extensive space 
between faces of strangers on the street 
too important to sell, with radiant smiles, 
sounds of silence through mediocrity, 
if thoughts stumble blind into broken doors 
locked against hungry refugees of war. 

Gentility confined to edge of cliffs, 
unaccountable to agents of truth, 
hangs by crude rotation without new pens 
to calculate how soon death comes for us, 
if distance entrances hearts of believers 
stuck on the train that will never arrive. 

Not for all the wine of anywhere else 
will I go to Heaven on the glass hill 
because I want to buy your love with pearls 
as sign of holy sentiment I feel, 
if love stops emerging from wounded hearts, 
for how blue the sky always seems to be. 

As body with no face to mask my soul 
I walk the invisible beach of faith 
without sand in the story with no plot 
except when I agree without good terms, 
if angels have no alabaster wings, 
to sail the sea without the boat of skulls. 

Though death infers logical sense of fear, 
I persist without intention to build 
new house that is no home on signless road 
despite how love should act beyond the phase, 
if fate adorns aversion with false hope, 
from which is born cause of obscurity. 

He says he sees my picture on the wall 
in railway station underneath the church 
where zombies worship vampire as their god 
who plays disc jockey on the radio, 
if we are amazed by obvious things, 
broadcasting revolution in hip code. 

Still shored against grim ruins of the past, 
that buzzes facts of history in my brain, 
I deign to anticipate, with sly jokes, 
collapse of our empire just before lunch, 
if we share power to operate fate, 
because the end of the world is postponed. 

How Quiet Blueness Knows

How Quiet Blueness Knows
© Surazeus
2026 07 18

With startled eyes on quivering twine of truth 
I cast my longing in vast sea of dreams 
but I catch nothing more than devil-gods 
who think they are brave rulers of the world, 
so I lurk in strange shadows of the mind 
to multiply my soul as wordless books. 

I walk on shifting sands of honesty 
to prove I know the secret name of God 
who floods parched land of hope with bitter tears 
where we drown laughing in sorrow we sold 
so we can buy gold castle of the clouds 
designed by children in library rooms. 

Awake on blackberry lane without fear, 
I gather fragments of ghosts from burned books 
to plaster them in beehive of delight, 
concerned for lesser platitude of light 
contained in boxes stacked with silent thought 
despite how quiet blueness knows our names. 

Because I open wide my quiet voice 
with long contrition of excessive hope, 
I blindly wander green fields of dismay 
in search for ordinary time alone 
because I need new battery for my heart 
to understand what strangers want to say. 

No road is straight enough to follow home, 
though they extend beyond hills of esteem 
with proverb I should overcome my fear 
for loss of people I try not to love 
because they disappear in swirling fog 
each time I call their name at stubborn dawn. 

Across bleak moorland to gray city streets 
I follow twisted signs of pulchritude 
on mission to repair bridge of disgrace 
with fractured concepts of seasonal wealth 
derived from sales of flowers to the dead 
before lamps flash while swinging in rain wind. 

Another harried age of our weird world 
returns with summer glow of hungry leaves 
refracting rainbow demons through our hearts 
so we hear spiders sing with ruthless love, 
undone by beauty of her maskless face 
without exception of uncertain truth. 

Through hedonistic wholeness we aspire 
to float on sprawling silence of god eyes, 
based on the stark indifference of grace 
that splits unsteady happiness with smiles 
while we walk endless trail of dire renown 
to channel typhoon winds with humble hymns. 

Art Of Losing Things

Art Of Losing Things
© Surazeus
2026 07 18

Almost unseen in the hot summer sun, 
the faceless ghost who haunts my large back yard 
watches me with ancient eyes of regret, 
but when I approach her in soundless glow 
of heatwaves shimmering over dry grass 
she vanishes into ache of my heart. 

Just as I almost forget she is real, 
she reappears from shadow of desire 
to show me tremendous fish of her heart 
that she caught from deep lake of innocence, 
speckled with lime rosettes of secret code, 
which pulses with rainbow of rented truth. 

With eyes that glare at long-dead stars of faith, 
she tells me I should master with intent 
the art of losing things I value most, 
so I spend hours searching for dream keys 
that I am sure I left beside the door, 
while she stares weeping at her broken watch. 

I write her story in my book of tales 
with golden blood of angels as my ink, 
but every morning when I look again 
the words have vanished into beams of light 
cast by the midday sun through web of limbs 
from trees that seem to understand her heart. 

Her life must be disaster of desire, 
strange drama never seen on stage of fame, 
because she walks along the winding flow 
of red Scamander River on the plain 
below the hill where towers of Ilium 
crumbled into words of lost epic poems. 

While I sip ginger tea on the back porch, 
idly plucking strings of my broken lyre, 
she grips my arm with weird beatific smile, 
and tells me this day when the tyrant falls 
is the most beautiful day of the year 
but tomorrow we must get back to work. 

Because I think I hear the forest elf 
whistle as she dances on moonlit grass, 
I feel my heart drawn taut as silver string 
that twangs with wordless voices of the land 
where star-eyed owls of Nowhere Land keep watch 
over ghost-crowded streets of paradise. 

Eyes half-closed against the bright summer sun, 
that shimmers gold in canopies of trees, 
I hear eerie song of the faceless ghost 
whose sweet mercurial voice of secret love 
reveals the presence of Athena near, 
because I am the sorrow of her tear. 

Graves Of The Nameless Dead

Graves Of The Nameless Dead
© Surazeus
2026 07 17

Awake in ghost-glow of the city maze 
that sprawls across vast plain of anguished wind 
where turgid swamps once festered amid palms, 
I walk along the endless lamplit roads 
past thousand churches with harsh clanging bells 
where frightened people pray to stick of wood. 

When I slouch despondently by the sea, 
the mad-eyed Fletcher from dark mountain woods 
points to the trembling topaz of his heart 
which I mistake to be the Evening Star, 
so I return to cave of humming ghosts 
where diamonds glow with light of the First Flash. 

Orpheus wanders with his broken lyre 
through choking shadows of the underworld 
because no faceless ghost with wavering voice 
follows his untuned melody of faith 
in vain attempt to escape numbing fear 
that we return to mute flame of our birth. 

I trust dire vision of Orpheus more 
than deceptive lie of the afterlife 
that Paulus preached by the tomb of Platon 
because our bodies cannot resurrect 
from organ-crushing nothingness of death, 
nor do our souls linger mute in dark Hell. 

Though I descend to grim Plutonian caves, 
where Orcus whips chained slaves to mine more gold, 
I find no spectral spirits of the dead 
for they are living men enslaved by greed 
who toil in Underworld where treasures bleed 
tears of despair from men who long to die. 

Two souls of immortal transciency meet 
in circle of firm flesh on jagged hill 
to weave taut threads of spirit-binding genes 
that sparks divine soul of immortal hope 
with words of truth unheard in human speech 
which flare forth flame of faith in dreaming eyes. 

Though stars that flicker with beautiful gleam 
burned out to lightless spheres of spinning gas 
millions of years ago in swirl of time, 
their rays of hope appear in our night skies 
with surge of blood-tides in our mortal hearts 
so we express our faith in solemn hymns. 

Orpheus strums the lyre of Mercury 
and sings about the lonely odyssey 
of wily men who learn through suffering 
to honor sacred pale of every home 
by offering shelter to lost refugees 
who build homes on graves of the nameless dead. 

Weird Alphabet Code

Weird Alphabet Code
© Surazeus
2026 07 17

Diurnal factor of the holy mind 
recalculates process of vital faith 
that resurrects from rancid vibrancy 
new state of mind based on theory of play 
through which my hungry heart recalibrates 
sacred path I blaze to avoid world fame. 

The multiverse represents all the worlds 
our brains can imagine as possible, 
but they all emanate through fantasy 
from this real universe in which we live, 
so we must see this world as it exists, 
messy confluence of willful desires. 

Strange wisdom of the rising sun requires 
focused attention of the filtered mind 
to assemble random facts about life 
in ever-shifting puzzle of half-truths 
as kaleidoscopic lens of desire 
through which we perceive what we want to see. 

Disguised as old woman in flower dress 
who has taught grade-school children forty years, 
Seraphus reveals weird alphabet code 
composing words in sentences of hope 
which frames reality of swirling atoms 
in mental paradigm of social truths. 

When I see white horse gallop on grass plain 
with gusts of wind that cause tall trees to swirl, 
I track how my brain processes this scene 
as linguistic function of formal ideas 
to signify objects with qualities 
that describe actions they perform in time. 

Though my brain places label on its form 
describing how the white horse swiftly runs, 
I note how static word fails to present 
swirling complexity of active life, 
yet focuses attention of my mind 
on how to visualize its vibe with verse. 

Quotidian process of analog thoughts 
weaves concepts in digital images 
through frantic analysis based on vibes 
that produce grand portrait of human brains 
tangled with random memories of pain 
which motivates our need to invent truth. 

Expansive scope of beautiful conceptions 
encloses complex forces in whole swirl 
framed by accelerating sphere of fate 
that generates our bodies from coiled genes 
powered by electric soul of the brain 
which animates our minds with flash of love. 

Desolate Texas Highway

Desolate Texas Highway
© Surazeus
2026 07 16

Cold wind howls on desolate Texas highway 
where Darlene trudges to end of the world 
after running away from house of sorrow 
where her cruel step-father stumbles home drunk 
and beats her mother to steal all her money 
she earns working as a waitress all night. 

Death walks beside her on dark Texas highway 
but Darlene ignores his demonic eyes 
and sneers at thunder that cracks walls of Heaven 
by twisting rainbows into tangled knots 
to calculate process of righteous anger 
that guides her journey across the waste land. 

Black van stops on the naked Texas highway 
so Darlene runs into the howling wind 
but three men drag her to the hotel prison 
where old businessmen and youth pastors pay 
with coins of despair forged from bitter laughter 
to treat her like their sad wives they despise. 

Running nowhere on the bruised Texas highway 
after Darlene shoots mean pimp in the head, 
she stumbles barefoot in the marble palace 
where graceful ghosts worship Helen of Troy 
who tries to hide inside the golden idol 
to escape death from domestic abuse. 

When we meet on the dusty Texas highway 
Darlene gives me cracked mask of Lucifer 
so I play noble role of tyrant-slayer 
in revolution for justice and truth 
till she gets trapped in Tower of Rapunzel 
as popstar who sings on the stage of fame. 

Ghost horse in drizzle on gray Texas highway 
guides Darlene home to the small country town 
where Vulcan works as car engine mechanic 
who plays indie folk in the smokey bar 
with mercurial voice of sincere compassion 
for children killed in genocidal wars. 

Hitchhiking west on the lone Texas highway, 
Darlene considers secret of the moon 
that shimmers in silver lake of discretion 
with arcane formulas of moral code 
to program how our brains perceive the world 
as ever-shifting puzzle of tall tales. 

Devils dance on deserted Texas highway 
though Darlene unravels clock of her mind 
transformed from concept of the loyal turtle 
where the blind read lost books of tragic tales 
designed to hypnotize objective people 
with bright fantasy of the Afterlife. 

Mystery Of Musical Tunes

Mystery Of Musical Tunes
© Surazeus
2026 07 16

Though my brain oscillates with frantic hope 
that justice triumphs over tyranny, 
I wander blithely balanced just enough 
to eat hamburger at the Globe cafe 
and ponder mystery of musical tunes 
that cause the mind to hum in harmony. 

This hour of sudden weirdness, still unknown, 
becomes my destiny by lazy choice 
so I gaze far down hazy road of hope 
to see what strange opinions I should hold 
implicit in surroundings of bare hills 
which I map to analyze fantasy. 

Since I have no inherent legal right 
to be myself with mask of Lucifer, 
I decide to film events of my life 
as if my deeds are dramatic enough 
to compose grand epic of daily needs 
because time suits my passion to pretend. 

This disassembled puzzle of my soul 
might be composed of random sentences 
discarded by the wizard in gray suit 
who talks about the boring things of life 
without hook of the brutal question mark 
that snags blind demon from my hungry heart. 

Becoming more what I have never been, 
I eat last grain of curiosity 
to build new empire on productive farms 
because I gain from suffering I endure 
bright with sheen of forgotten memories 
that angels sell to devils in tool stores. 

Calm thunderstorm over the Texas plain 
reminds me that my spirit image fits 
well in social network of fancy games 
contrived by religious authorities 
based on deduction of justified theft 
in space cleared by arrival of desire. 

My brain projects virtual model of Earth 
on walls of the church where everyone prays 
for one king to rule nations of the world 
with secretions of the demonized heart 
healed by the humorous savior who knows 
how rapturous clouds appear in my skull. 

Since everyone knows truth becomes the hole 
in which our bodies writhe with pulsing words, 
we walk hand in hand on the garden path 
where blood-stained flowers bloom from corpse of God 
to climb the tower of water with pride 
since justice triumphs over tyranny. 

Backward My Dream Mind

Backward My Dream Mind
© Surazeus
2026 07 16

Backward my dream mind, vast as mountain vale, 
wild gushing waters of hope overtake, 
so on winged horse of innocent respect 
I travel abreast with Nature afar 
to comprehend strange music of her form 
that vibrates with psychic music of love. 

Forward with tattered pirate map of hope, 
remnants of friends in buried treasure chests, 
I search for in abandoned yards of dreams 
whose world of secrets I abandoned, lost 
by walking signless road of nowhere else 
till I find something lodged inside my heart. 

How many jagged mountains of desire 
I wonder wait for my mind to explore 
secret caves of cold fire, blue as dawn ice, 
where I would lay my body down to die 
still as sharp ache of hope that stabs my heart 
with eager passion to drink moon-bleak tears. 

Waves of the ocean reach for my soft heart 
with hunger to devour soul energy 
pulsing through blood veins with new strategies 
to outmaneuver thieves in business suits, 
because they sell cliffs to the gullible 
as suitable fields to cultivate crops. 

Another friend returns with stolen gems 
from naked underworld of honesty 
because he knows how to unpuzzle truth 
concealed in alabaster jar of oil 
rancid with secret desires of true love 
for beauty embodied in sculptured mask. 

My fake voice lingers in dim emptiness 
with shocking melody of bitterness 
sweetened by tumultuous ardency 
to sing with resonant silence of truth 
that cracks foundations of world empires 
so our faces become square as glass books. 

No wandering gypsy of the river woods 
dares curse my heart with unrequited love 
which I package with plastic dolls of fear 
for sale to discrete tyrants of concern 
though some prefer fake gratitude of fruit 
rotten with spices of arrogant faith. 

Marvelous thoughts trapped in fairy-tale books 
encourage me to question noble laws 
contrived to rig the social game of power 
in favor of the privileged elite 
who bury treasures outside paradise 
so I leave secrets hidden in the heart. 

White Horse In The Stone

White Horse In The Stone
© Surazeus
2026 07 15

The way we dance about the broken tree 
of knowledge, where three angels gamble souls 
against electric solitude of fate, 
reveals conceptual jaggedness of fear 
by which we prove our noble manliness 
with psychic levels of testosterone. 

Trapped in grim ritual of the shopping spree 
to buy masks and costumes for our new roles, 
I scrub our television screens of hate 
on holy mission from the Puppeteer 
who questions origin of happiness 
invented by the white horse in the stone. 

The way we gather at the flash of  dawn 
in ring of stones, that angels call Stonehenge, 
to sing electric hymn of shocking truth, 
inspires the eyeless aliens from Zar 
to teach us humans how to colonize 
the waste land with water pipes of desire. 

In every life I always play the pawn 
trained by Minerva to unpeel the orange 
as heartfelt gift to world messiah sleuth 
who rules United States of Zathamar 
through hidden network of innocent spies 
who sing about Orpheus in the choir. 

The way we weep with anguish of respect 
for people who die unfairly each day, 
because our souls dwell in no afterlife, 
exposes fraud of preachers who declare 
our wounded bodies will rise from the dead 
because our brains pulse with ancestral ghosts. 

Unnerved by riddles of the brain defect 
which fool me into thinking I must pray 
with plan to learn lessons from mental strife, 
I emerge dripping from swamp of despair 
to parade with jeweled crown on my head 
on global stage where I play Lord of Hosts. 

The way we type our thoughts in fractured verse 
in vain attempt to describe what is real, 
contrary to lies of religious creeds, 
expands scope of my conscious sense of self 
beyond strict bounds of righteous lethargy 
based on canon law of the vampire god. 

Inspired to wear bright mask of Lucifer, 
designed by my mother with glass and steel, 
I study potent vibrancy of seeds 
that bloom from footsteps of the daring elf 
whose kiss sparks my heart with dream energy 
which helps me code the formula for fraud. 

If I Am Someone Else

If I Am Someone Else
© Surazeus
2026 07 15

Shocked by thought-executing fires of hope 
that mold rotundity of Earth from words 
stolen by ravens from dark river shores, 
I charge subscription of strange elements 
that crack calm confidence in mindless truth 
with earnest plan to assert dominance. 

Careless regression from pastoral states 
of mind, contrived by articles of faith, 
contracts expansive scope of innocence 
smaller than the measuring spoon of time 
by which I scoop conceptual nonchalance 
with vague obsession of planless progress. 

Time seems to readjust intense display 
of prowess I project with neutral stance 
where I determine, through unseen design, 
to stand my ground against unnatural force 
that cracks foundation of our social state 
so we fend for ourselves in silent woods. 

Perhaps one thousand years of waterfalls 
have now eroded jagged mountain peaks 
down to wind-rounded hills of smooth regret, 
dispersing spirit of the heart on silver lake 
where ghosts of snowflakes swirl in summer haze 
till they become cranes of adjacent charm. 

Though I have journeyed on the rugged trail 
through seasonal blasts of hostile intent, 
when I reach the door where my best friend dwells 
I pause to savor with intense respect 
urgent passion to travel, now fulfilled, 
then turn around and travel home again. 

Exhausted by attempts to reach the moon 
on tattered wings of hope Icarus lost, 
I stretch description of my faceless soul 
inert on throbbing surface of broken rocks, 
cluttered in seething globe of timeless change, 
till I wonder if I am someone else. 

Disassembled brain of dream-powered gears, 
that oscillates between time-tangling poles, 
programs itself to change how it perceives 
reality through weird framework of tales 
derived from fractured memories of ghosts 
who vehemently deny they are dead. 

Though I once ran swift as the long-maned horse 
along winding stream of advanced degrees, 
in courageous plan to transcend frail frame 
of passion-filtered reverence, my soul 
expends excessive energy of faith 
to evade fate that laughs with tender love. 

National Zoo Of Fame

National Zoo Of Fame
© Surazeus
2026 07 14

After I escape from prison of hope, 
and litter streets of fear with greedy thugs, 
I shall fly the rocket to outer space 
and live in my gold palace on the moon 
far away from the business office complex 
where the Swan of Tuonela waits for me. 

My faith links the fantasy of escape 
with brutal reality of confinement 
because I am the mute ape in your zoo 
who longs to live free in suburbia, 
in the three-bedroom ranch house by the lake 
with white sedan I drive to work each day. 

Though the signless road of my bold ambition 
grows dimmer every day I drive toward Heaven, 
in swirling smog where I can hardly see, 
I fight the devil with the silver star 
who laughs with shotgun of law in his hand 
because he knows I will never be free. 

Trapped within the National Zoo of Fame, 
by the senator who owns the gold mine 
on our land where my father tended wheat, 
my fierce rebellious lion-heart of faith 
is monitored by state psychiatrists 
who study mystery of the human mind. 

Exhibited in cage of my persona, 
I dwell in domestic structure of marriage, 
restricted by the law of give and take 
as I perform identity I stole 
by wearing suit and tie with polished shoes 
when I sit at desk of authority. 

I stare in mirror of my memories 
to wonder where my childhood vanished to 
in faded photographs of broken schools 
filled with faceless people who pray in church 
for savior of the world to rescue them 
from junkyard garden of the rotten tree. 

The photo of my war against the state, 
where I pose with long rifle on my hip 
while riding naked on my shadow horse, 
hangs on the wall of your suburban church 
to prove the wicked come to sorry ends 
as bullet-riddled corpses on dirt roads. 

My tragic flaw is I will seize the day 
despite the consequences actions cause 
when I design network of water pipes 
to provide social service of respect 
to every house in the factory town 
displayed in your National Zoo of Fame. 

Why Time Is Fake

Why Time Is Fake
© Surazeus
2026 07 13

Camilla considers why time is fake 
while floating in glass boat on the star lake, 
though wingless angels on the muddy shore 
keep disappearing through numberless door 
at sudden crack of bells that realigns 
statues of dead gods in conceptual lines. 

Staring at her face in the mirror gleam, 
Camilla thinks about joining the team 
of wingless angels to hunt criminals 
who abuse good people like animals, 
but three clocks on the vast cathedral wall 
unweave matrix of time in sad rainfall. 

Packing six paper bags of groceries 
while angels spiral through her ovaries, 
Camilla plans her clandestine escape 
from prison of her home in the dreamscape 
by switching money to her bank account 
with secret agent of the castle count. 

Bright headlights of the speeding car expose 
uncertain beauty of her private rose 
with flashing magnet of hypnotic trance 
through thought paralysis of her stiff stance 
at shock of horror that her husband steers 
car of bitter rage at her wordless fears. 

Crushed against her car at sudden impact 
of blunt aggression beyond legal fact, 
Camilla gasps in anguish of mute pain 
that sears through tattered fabric of the vain 
with mangled ardency of canceled hope 
untwisting order of her mental scope. 

Stunned awake beyond conscious state of fear 
at blurred flash of the unreachable near, 
Camilla writhes in buzzing blast of shock 
that sucks her spirit into the faceless rock 
where she becomes small seed of nothingness 
as swollen bulge on bridge of faithfulness. 

From open eyes of vast infinity, 
Camilla soars through sharp futility 
as wordless blood from gaping mouth of love 
gurgles desperately to express concern 
for safety of her daughter in the car 
whose eyes are fractured by the lonely star. 

While Camilla floats in the ambulance 
to gamble with death in fraught game of chance, 
police arrest her husband as he snarls 
with rage against disobedient girls, 
but the nurse pronounces moment of death 
when young mother explains why time is fake.