Viewless Wings Of Poesy

Viewless Wings Of Poesy
© Surazeus
2026 02 25

Startled awake from drowsy dreams of hope, 
I hear light-winged Dryad of pear trees 
sing of summer with sharp electric ease 
that echoes with melodious ache of love 
in vast suburban maze of cheerful homes 
far from lone highway where my spirit roams. 

Since I returned unseen to world of work, 
because I faded not in forest sheen, 
with bottled liquor of the Hippocrene, 
from long afternoons singing in the park, 
I bring with me strange songs of haunted woods 
that radiate lustrous eyes in neighborhoods. 

Almost grown specter-thin with pale despair, 
I journeyed far across lush evening land 
and found bright glow of passion in brave bond 
through viewless wings of Poesy in air 
I breathe to transform sorrow in clear psalm 
with vibrant tones that teach my heart brave calm. 

Forever now in love with easeful Death, 
immortal Muse who knows my secret name, 
I chant ecstatic tune that dares not tame 
dynamic force of wisdom with brave faith 
expanding conscious scope of my respect 
for clever insight of the Architect. 

Amid the alien corn of my desire 
I open magic casement of my heart 
to find my place on Earth by the star chart, 
yet sing out of tune with the global choir 
since I bear book from fairy land forlorn 
with puzzling map that shows where I was born. 

Uncanny dream song of the nightingale 
lures me to grove of wild fruit trees at dusk 
where I see angel wearing mortal mask 
strum lyre of Mercury with joy, and wail 
heart-aching ode to beauty of this life 
that forges courage from confusing strife. 

Performing roles of emperor and clown, 
young Mercury sings ode of aching hope 
that suffering will teach our hearts to cope 
by breathing faith to wear celestial gown, 
inspired by music of the nightingale 
that reveals secret of the Holy Grail. 

When I hear forlorn bells of fairy land 
unveil mysterious path to my True Self, 
I follow song of that deceiving elf 
who lures me to weird garden of my mind 
where I sing plaintive anthem with clear voice 
that proves we map our fate with every choice. 

Misaligned Features Of Fate

Misaligned Features Of Fate
© Surazeus
2026 02 25

Cruel as the joke of life sometimes might be 
I find strange beauty in weird messiness 
that renders landscape of our mental space 
crooked with misaligned features of fate 
in contrast with delusions of desire 
our brains project on what we wish could be. 

Peter cocks his head and stares at dark clouds, 
then grins as if his argument made sense, 
but shrugs and watches boys on grassy field 
play football with assertive force of pride 
by sprinting with their treasure to the goal 
that replays fight of rival towns for wealth. 

Just as both teams meet at the scrimmage line 
to start another down with standard run, 
someone in black jacket runs on the field 
and shoots at players with shotgun of rage, 
killing the quarterback and several players, 
then everyone in the stands starts to scream. 

Chaos of people running everywhere 
erupts from controlled ritual of observance, 
but Peter drops beer can with gleaming eyes, 
runs straight through the swirling crowd of scared souls 
toward looming shadow of the evil demon 
and tackles the shooter with brutal force. 

Gripping arms of the shooter with tight fists, 
Peter waits till police handcuff his wrists, 
then glares at young boy with scar on his face 
who growls that the quarterback and his pals 
gang-raped his sister and left her for dead, 
so God told him to send their souls to Hell. 

We cannot take the law in our own hands, 
Peter wants to declare with noble voice, 
but police take him away in the van 
down the dark road while lights flash blue and red, 
so he stares stunned at bright blood on the grass 
as journalists with cameras call him hero. 

Our world is structure of atomic sparks 
so actions of our hands, sparked by our will, 
construct or destruct the structures of things 
through force of energy we gesture forth 
when visions of the world inside our brains 
moralize the real world our minds perceive. 

While guarding Gate of Paradise with law 
to attend credentials of characters 
requesting entrance to Garden of Eden, 
Peter studies passport of the young man 
who killed the rapists who abused his sister, 
then stamps approved, allowing him to enter. 

Relate My Weird Tale

Relate My Weird Tale
© Surazeus
2026 02 24

If she spends her days in tears people shed, 
she may lose her eyes to the faceless god 
who looks just like her father of the moon 
so she explains with psychiatrist tone 
that we have a nameless stranger in us 
whose dark feelings are superfluous. 

She holds her breath with courageous attempt 
to prove her companions should be exempt 
from sudden nothingness of wordless death 
who like to sing with oceanic breath 
assertive psalm of holy dizziness 
to the dead on bridge of forgetfulness. 

Because we learned to ambulate upright 
while dancing in the shallow ocean tide, 
she tells me she feels dizzy in her heart 
because our world is spinning off the chart, 
then reminds me that I should change my life 
after she decides she will be my wife. 

She digs in mass grave of dead languages 
to find the expert ghost of loneliness 
while hanging from the building roof of pride 
that she has found where all the angels hide 
by singing with the mocking bird of fate 
who untwists formulas of selfish hate. 

When Death stands near us in the twilight zone, 
she touches truth that radiates from the phone, 
then measures fluctuating flow of time 
that morphs my soul into the Shadow Mime 
so I teach you to chant alchemic spells 
which helps me find my eyes in runic wells. 

We burn dead body of our fallen god 
whose spirit calculates psychotic code 
required by angels of the justice squad 
to track my evolution through each node 
four hundred million years from fish to fool 
who plays humble king in the play at school. 

Since I am hungry for electric fruit, 
I drive white truck while wearing satin suit, 
accelerating through each cosmic frame 
across the multiverse to find my name 
carved with seraphic runes on granite cliffs 
that relate my weird tale with petroglyphs. 

When she traces our sprawling family tree 
to find roots of our brains in physic key, 
she finds first person in our gene bloodline 
is Owl of Athena trapped in the shrine 
where Mercury sings of the Traveler 
who hides that he is son of Lucifer. 

Grandson Of Cassandra

Grandson Of Cassandra
© Surazeus
2026 02 24

Grandson of Cassandra, Sybil of Truth, 
I prophesy events of global change 
in psychic code of clever fairy tales 
that foretell coming of messiah sleuth 
whose principles cover whole social range 
designed to analyze commercial sales. 

In love with Sybil of Cimmeria, 
where dark clouds loom above vast city maze, 
I transcribe riddles she proclaims in trance, 
preserved through temples of Sumeria 
to help us navigate next social phase 
when Fortune gambles our brief lives with chance. 

Exact location of the sacred fane, 
where Roma tends warm hearth of our safe home, 
eludes aggressive stalkers seeking wealth 
because she dwells on bright celestial plane 
where I hide timeless beauty in dream tome 
that fools should read to maintain mental health. 

Cruel Saturn teaches young Mercurius 
strange art of weaving words with tangled threads 
in shining tapestry of world events 
so when I am reborn as Sirius 
I have tools to retrieve from fragile heads 
conceptual tropes that guide wise presidents. 

Alert to sudden shifts in public vibes, 
that flash from sentimental anecdotes 
when Fate highlights souls who stumble on stage 
to play roles that channel spirit of their tribes, 
I encourage people to cast their votes 
for seer who transforms respect from blind rage. 

Trained by mute Cassandra to analyze 
dramatic scenes of interacting souls 
that portray weird zeitgeist of our Hive Mind, 
I organize gangs of poetry spies 
who manipulate people to play roles 
in social games that suffering has streamlined. 

Master of community services 
providing support for war refugees, 
I hide my power of the puppeteer 
with mask that mirrors polished surfaces 
in vain attempt to suppress tragedies 
officials commit for the chanticleer. 

Cassandra, who lies trembling in my arms, 
grandmother Sybil of Cimmerian hills 
who changed history with secret prophecies, 
explains how she lives reborn as my charms, 
then gives me ancient book of vatic spells 
with formulas that bind democracies. 

Silence Of Fake Words

Silence Of Fake Words
© Surazeus
2026 02 23

Down here in dirty cavern of my heart, 
I slouch with passive passion for this life, 
half-awake beneath surface of grim fear, 
wondering if could crawl back up from Hell 
so I can jump off high cliff of despair 
and float on wings of Icarus nowhere. 

Unseen in shadow of the faceless god 
who stands as grand idol above the crowd, 
I mumble spells that no one ever hears 
through troubling hum of my interior self 
that vanishes in silence of fake words 
when you listen close to understand fear. 

Shocked at moment of terrible insight 
by self-exploration of wordless despair, 
I wear mask of self-awareness to hide 
demonic storm of hate that writhes with lust 
in pulsing passion of my hungry heart 
when I fail to analyze psychic noise. 

Startled by clanging bells of dire alarms 
that rattle fire-station walls with woke jokes, 
I scream at portraits of ghosts on the wall 
who threaten to devour my apple heart, 
so I lie on my back on marble floor 
to let gallery viewers trample me. 

Crawling drunk on country dirt-road of faith, 
I tremble paralyzed by divine light 
when God approaches in the starless night 
as glaring headlights of the semitruck 
that crushes my perspective into dust 
though I photograph piston-engine guts. 

Head bowed in contemplation of regret 
from vain attempt to untwist moral laws 
with blunt authority of bitter gods, 
I empower embrace of naked Death 
in frantic avoidance of mental angst 
that beams image of my soul in the mirror. 

Haughty with genius of performance tricks, 
I fall in love with image of my Self 
which I invent from psychotic remains 
of famous word wizards who sang love spells 
which lures attention from inner turmoil 
concealed by surface mask of conscious breath. 

Blind shadow of all my ancestors lurks 
in hollow shimmer of my doorless room 
so I displace my god-bright consciousness 
in flashing television screen of dreams 
that urges me to leap in toxic pool 
with gritty influx of irreverent faith. 

Tears Of Happy Rain

Tears Of Happy Rain
© Surazeus
2026 02 23

On hands and knees of brave alacrity, 
bruised by bitter faith in the Promised Land, 
Ellen crawls across muddy field of fear 
with fierce indifference of the thunderstorm 
that drenches her in tears of happy rain 
which seeks to cleanse her heart of futile pain. 

Ellen breathes ethereal light of respect 
with passion to inflate cordial concern, 
then stumbles in sparse grove of apple trees 
to coil elastic sinews of her soul 
wound tight in sheltering canopy of faith 
by huddling against cold wind of despair. 

Eyes blinking with blurred insight of her watch 
that never measures slow passage of change, 
Ellen imagines she dials time backward 
to undrench field of mud in silver rain 
far enough that she sees the stone in time 
to swerve the car aside before the crash. 

Unbreak the wheel of Helios with foresight, 
Ellen tells herself with wry grin of angst 
while peering through flashing curtains of rain 
to spot demonic monsters with sharp teeth 
before they attack and rip out her heart 
that pounds with cautious readiness to flee. 

Ellen sighs as she peers through silver sheen 
to assess situation with the car 
that lies battered and twisted on its side, 
and notes right front wheel brokely spinning slow 
with grim accusatory glare of fate, 
then ponders how to right the vehicle. 

Like the wounded horse fallen on its side 
from breaking its leg against unseen rock, 
dim headlights of the car stare in her eyes 
with forlorn anguish of confusing pain 
that stabs her heart with sudden flush of guilt, 
so she aches to comfort crashed car with care. 

Bemused that she imagines non-souled car, 
constructed from metal, rubber, and wood, 
with piston engine powered by gasoline, 
must feel pain and fear in its suffering, 
Ellen chuckles this empathy persists 
against all rational analysis. 

Arms and legs bruised from wrenching accident, 
Ellen eats several apples from the tree 
as gold sunrays glitter after the storm, 
then limps slowly back to overturned car 
to caress its dented hood with compassion, 
but cries at the death of her favorite horse. 

True Nature Of Christ

True Nature Of Christ
© Surazeus
2026 02 22

Randomly wandering off somewhere else, 
I sit by the river of clarity 
and listen to the scream of butterflies 
that catalogue how incompetent kings 
cause their civilizations to collapse 
by crushing critical experiments. 

While people in the building on the hill 
argue about the true nature of Christ, 
whether God created him from the stone 
or whether he is eternal as the wind, 
I hum harmonious catalyst of faith 
that highlights the indifference of Nature. 

I ponder concept of the Holy Ghost 
who sparks gasoline of electric hope 
without dynamic formulas for fate 
we sell each other in the marketplace 
through graphical interface of dire thoughts 
impressive with index of verbal bombs. 

Reordered medium of mutual creeds 
might maximize our maternal instincts 
contrived by magic minister of reason 
who sells salvation to synthetic brides 
at standardized reunion of glass schools 
secure with sediment of salaries. 

Rude receiver of messages from God 
presents tremendous terms of unity 
while on vacation to the Promised Land 
where children volunteer to feed the poor 
who celebrate grand victory of their team 
at fight for wisdom on the waterfront. 

Untitled prince who roams the wilderness 
stops at each house in the shadowy woods 
to praise accomplishments of the mad clown 
who treasures quality of polished bowls 
which he presents at every seminar 
as specialized game of socialist code. 

Despite regression of the psychic mode, 
Remus falls asleep in algebra class 
though Lakshmi taps him on the shoulder blade 
before the evening sun begins to fade 
erasing every church from dream of time 
so people walk with nothing in their hands. 

As passive character of my own tale, 
I confront some small problem in my life, 
meditating on strange complexity 
inherent in our worship of the light, 
but take no action that might change the world, 
then wander somewhere else I never am. 

Emptiness Of The Mind

Emptiness Of The Mind
© Surazeus
2026 02 22

Because I seek emptiness of the mind, 
erasing special features from my face 
so I become the universal soul, 
I leave my name as mask on broken ground 
with nonchalant indifference of true faith 
to empathize with every soul on Earth. 

Carmentis carves letters as keys for tones 
that symbolize the sounds of words we speak, 
transforming letters that Cadmus designed 
to better match speech her tribesmen express, 
then sings the heart-charming spell she composed 
while Mercurius strums strings of his lyre. 

Bearing bright-eyed son of Mercurius, 
Carmentis holds new-born child in her arms 
and beams with joy as he suckles fresh milk, 
then hums charming melody with soft voice 
while she ponders what name of noble sense 
she will choose to address him with respect. 

Leaning against marble statue of Pallas, 
that stands with spear and cape in temple hall 
on hill of Pallantium in Arcadia, 
Mercurius adjusts strings of his lyre 
while his curious son crawls on his lap 
and giggles when he plucks taut strings of time. 

Running with his pet wolf in rugged hills, 
Evander finds two men in apple grove 
grasp arms of young woman with cruel intent 
while their leader attempts to kiss her mouth, 
so he drives them away with magic wand, 
then cleans her face and gives her juice to drink. 

While lounging with Clytia beside the pool, 
Evander vows to marry her with love, 
but Tantalus bursts into temple hall 
and shouts with rage that Clytia is his wife, 
so Evander flees far across the sea, 
and sails till he lands on shore of Latium. 

Exhausted from his trip across the sea, 
Evander crawls to temple in dark woods 
where gold-haired Latina offers him juice, 
spiced apple cider that revives his heart, 
so he brings firewood and water in jars, 
gazing with love as she bakes loaves of bread. 

Bearing bright-eyed daughter of Evander, 
Latina teaches her to analyze 
social events with code of prophecy, 
so Roma presides at the temple hearth 
while strumming dream lyre of Mercurius 
whose spirit wakes in sparkle of her eyes. 

Games Of Word Power

Games Of Word Power
© Surazeus
2026 02 22

I played my part in the national tale 
though no one noticed my performance art, 
so who will be surprised when it falls apart 
because I finally caught the great white whale 
and saved America from tyranny 
by redirecting global symphony. 

When I transform into tall tree of light 
and float as mist above tree-shrouded hills 
so my soul shimmers clear in mountain rills, 
I channel soul of Star God through dream flight 
by singing in harmony with the stream 
where we unite and work as loyal team. 

Sunlight gleams on lake of demonic force 
while I write name of every famous mind 
who played on stage of hope that fate designed 
in quest to seek psychological source 
from which springs energy of social change 
that drives some to express whole mental range. 

Untwisting threads of fortune tangled tight, 
from which no human spirit can escape, 
I wear leather Dracula boots and cape 
while recording tales of the human plight 
dramatized as gods on the global stage, 
who play characters on the unread page. 

Though Fame never cast her eyes on my face, 
illuminating both weakness and strength 
that calculate with fractured scenes coiled length 
expanding my conscious sense of dream space, 
I celebrate success of role I played 
with solemn eloquence that needs no grade. 

Kwan Yin provides conceptual scope of health, 
preserved in luscious peach of timeless spark 
as bright atomic ray from divine quark, 
which fuels ascension of my soul through stealth 
from ever-changing sphere of molecules 
to wake as mortal god from chemicals. 

Intense with sudden insight of mute rain, 
I gaze out window of my roadless home 
at wagon trains that pass the crumbling dome 
to colonize farms on the river plain 
far from political games of state power 
so children can find truth in the star flower. 

Frustrated by fake role of loyal fool 
both church and state demanded I should play, 
I rewrite brain program script to portray 
creative architect who wields word tool 
to conjure virtual model of the Earth 
designed with progressive code of soul birth. 

Though you will never know the role I played 
as minor function in global machine, 
you may see ghosts glow on the silver screen 
that perform tale of Savior and Mermaid 
till we all go home when the play is done 
since Death cares not about who lost or won. 

Infinite Location Of Faith

Infinite Location Of Faith
© Surazeus
2026 02 22

Trivial circle of heart-breaking despair 
precludes expressive vision beyond death 
except repetitive gestures of hope 
trapped by mechanical actions of hands 
grasping slippery curve of the universe 
by looping back to cave of helplessness. 

Foundational assumptions about life 
on which I ramble with unconscious trust 
crack at brutal rays of honest despair 
and crumble into illusory sand 
so all I thought was true is incorrect, 
delusions that vanish at frantic grasps. 

Disoriented by delusions of false hope, 
I stumble through concept of the abyss, 
lost in dizzy haze of the endless maze, 
stuck at infinite location of faith 
unlocated in vast reality 
till I become the essence of nowhere. 

All meaning my mind invented from hope 
dissipates with mist in glare of the sun 
so I ache as I strive to comprehend 
phenomenon inherent in each thing 
that pulses with assumptions I devised 
though I mumble words to express my truth. 

Manipulated by petty desires 
that urge my actions to acquire respect, 
I struggle trapped in web of predilections, 
blinded by illusions my brain invents, 
till I stand naked in abysmal stasis, 
unknowing in profundity of why. 

Embraced by desire to live beyond death, 
my worn-out heart flutters its wounded wings 
when ultimate illusion of my truth, 
which I thought was eternal as high mountains, 
dissolves in blustery wind of wild waves 
that crush my words with cold indifference. 

Though I fancied myself sprite of free will, 
asserting my vision with honest words, 
I find my body of chemical fluids 
is no ethereal angel of pure light, 
but lust-automated reflex machine 
programmed by ancestral dreams of survival. 

With honest assessment of fallen angels, 
I know my self is charade of desire, 
mental computer of composite creeds 
designed to process experience of hope, 
so I embrace your body with my heart 
and we make love that banishes despair. 

One Of The Winged Seraphs

One Of The Winged Seraphs
© Surazeus
2026 02 21

When he stumbles drunk in the Promised Land, 
waving tattered book of weird fairy tales 
in his hand, Richard shouts at Tree of Life 
that he is in love with Annabel Lee 
because he is one of the winged seraphs 
who escaped Heaven with arrogant wings. 

Smearing blood of rainbows with joyful rage, 
while shouting insults at proud Gabriel, 
Richard paints Tarzan on cold marble wall 
to offend bright angels who rule the skies, 
but they smile at antics of the wild child 
who falls asleep by mushroom of the toad. 

Irreverent voice of the subjective clown, 
that withers holy daffodils of faith, 
bulges from his chest with assertive pride 
to tear constraints of strict morality 
with alligator teeth of jealousy, 
rejecting formal patterns of concern. 

Perceived as intellectual clown of faith, 
who maintains illusion of divine truth, 
Richard tears pages out of holy books 
to rearrange scenes of dramatic scope 
where he plays role of the very clean tramp 
who smashes god idols with steel guitars. 

Grave pursuit of obliteration proves 
crystal-clear melodies of chiming suites 
disarrange mental sense of ordered time 
through dynamic physics of fractured words 
which spool consistent concepts of regret 
since every moment binds eternity. 

Rehearsed narratives honest people code 
counterbalance sober insight with rage 
of circumscribed progress relapsing straight 
through puzzle of prepared absurdity 
when Richard abandons his youthful game 
for glossier assignments trashing truth. 

Continuous rejection by Perun, 
who catches lightning bolts with oaken wand, 
convinces Richard to trap ocean ghosts 
with undeveloped spirals spinning lies 
by weaving repertoire of holy clowns 
with self-invention through misquoted tricks. 

Reborn as television god of lies, 
who builds river boats from angelic bones, 
Richard attempts to escape from bland Hell, 
that he created with attentive care, 
by fighting against predetermined fate 
that his ancestors programmed in his brain. 

Hour Of False Grace

Hour Of False Grace
© Surazeus
2026 02 21

Nine times around the lake of sparkling eyes 
lithe Sylphus races clockwork orange of fate 
to dance with crystal wings of butterflies 
in frantic ritual to expel blind hate 
from seething body of the human race 
who sell their freedom for hour of false grace. 

Contraptions of desire collapse in shards 
that tighten roots of misdirected hope 
slammed with fluorescent keys of bitter cards 
designed to fracture wands fools steal to cope 
with time-contracted breath of confidence 
unspooling spiteful jokes of innocence. 

Determined to run time back home from fear 
by sprinting nowhere high on fragile thoughts, 
sad Sylphus questions far-flung words too near 
through frantic alibi of blind robots, 
yet maps departure to the unknown space 
with brave defiance of the blazing face. 

Drawn from bright shadows of the noon eclipse 
by snarling angels chained to temple poles, 
sly Sylphus swims vast oceans on slow trips 
against assertive tides of social goals 
contrived as law by tyrant on the hill 
who sneers at our assertion of free will. 

Though sweet celestial dreams of paradise 
rise from his heart and disappear at dawn, 
proud Sylphus brews from apricots and spice 
poisonous wine with brains of demon spawn 
who slither from spiraled telephone lines 
with stiff distrust of sudden porcupines. 

Supine airlines of loyal globalists 
connect disparate states of mental being 
with burning crosses doused by atheists 
who shake honest rattles of suffering 
when we escape collapse of empire clans 
who sell mansions and live in hopeless vans. 

Trapped by grim loneliness of broken words, 
bold Sylphus dares communicate with spells 
weird secrets of his heart to happy birds 
who guide his journey to find healing wells 
so he sees life with luminosity 
that radiates his brain with jocosity. 

You see kind Sylphus everywhere you go 
in maze of stores along cosmetic roads, 
disguised as humble workers for the show 
who play with brave dynamics of the toad 
in safe enclosures through equality, 
reserved for world reign of our deity. 

Turtle With Swan Wings

Turtle With Swan Wings
© Surazeus
2026 02 21

Strange as it seems to the alphabet god, 
I wade in bright lake of arrogant peace 
to catch demonic energy of fear 
and roast large fish in domed temple of truth, 
then sing with crickets in the twilight hour 
when Death catches the tyrant in the tower. 

Silver rain splashing on window of time 
reveals strange beauty of this world I love, 
refracting faces of strangers who live 
in doorless houses of my neighborhood, 
so I stand on stone bridge of timeless faith 
and listen to song of the star-eyed wraith. 

When people gather in the city park 
for the annual poetry festival, 
I morph into the turtle with swan wings 
to fly across the prairie of respect 
and walk in valley of the singing skull 
to hear sweet spell only rivers can sing. 

Though my heart is broken by civil wars 
that displace families from ancestral homes, 
the way Minerva smiles at me and laughs 
while we are strolling on the river shore 
heals secret wounds with charm of simple joy 
because despair flows away to the sea. 

Rivers have flowed from mountains to the seas 
four billion years of shining crystal eyes, 
and water will keep cycling through our hearts 
another billion years of spinning hope, 
so I kneel reverently in glowing grass 
and drink clear liquid in cupped hands of love. 

I pray to totems of Bacchus and Thor 
who laugh with joy at calm absurdity 
as we dance cheerful with anxiety 
to celebrate savage science of truth 
in war against the psychopathic god 
who blusters with obsessive angst at Death. 

Imperial pride of superior grace 
glares fiercely from cracked mirror of despair 
that drives brave Vikings mad in frantic fear 
when glass cathedrals crack from greedy prayers 
which leaves their treasured creeds exposed to rain 
washing pious fantasies to the sea. 

Stuck on the carousel of history 
that hurls my horse of courage into war, 
I race with passion past my destiny 
by swerving willfully from violent hate, 
and choose to welcome refugees of fate 
to build communal paradise of farms. 

Puzzle Of My Soul

Puzzle Of My Soul
© Surazeus
2026 02 21

Blithely assertive with ardent affection, 
I glow with quantum authenticity 
by stretching bandwidth of my psychic wings 
to soar in cloud of human-vibrant dreams 
that pulse with cosmic energy of hope 
as I assemble puzzle of my soul. 

Shocked by awesome beauty of dreamless stars, 
I wander nowhere in cement street maze 
with vague purpose of clandestine concern 
to find the angel I saw fall from Heaven 
so she can tell me secrets of the heart 
for wearing masks of heroes without care. 

Desperately aloof with fierce apathy, 
I flip insouciance with negligent plan 
to change world system of capital games 
so profit favors those who work the hardest 
though parasites drink from my bleeding heart 
with false integrity of patriots. 

Certified prophet of dangerous programs, 
designed to misdirect fraught deficits 
against dependence of spiritual sprites, 
I smear generic blood of history 
on forensic walls of bland galleries 
where bankers buy hazardous truths from artists. 

Optical riddles through mechanic thoughts 
monitor mysterious nurses of faith 
whose brave offensive hands heal mutant fools 
reborn as normal citizens of time 
who orchestrate routines of soul survival 
based on unlicensed puzzle of my soul. 

Nominal model of fashionable pride 
administers marginal show of beauty 
with lavender leadership of contempt 
pursuant to progressive relevance 
dispersed by constant crowd of vigilance 
unqualified to transmit tragedy. 

Vanity played by humble volunteers 
through magnitude of mortal membership 
should maximize my viability 
for martial legacy of microwaves 
modified by monuments of contrition 
for mutual misery of forgotten crimes. 

Nitrogen trust in organized resistance 
explodes with prejudice of false redemption, 
yet stoic protocols through synthesis 
supplement technical bias of trivia 
upgrading versatile skills by osmosis 
though I stare blind through verbal telescopes. 

Frail Rose Of Beauty

Frail Rose Of Beauty
© Surazeus
2026 02 20

Unbidden by grim councils of desire, 
our uncorrupted rose of beauty blooms 
beneath the starry dome of eerie hope 
with fragile petals of our mortal hearts 
that breathe strange sweetness of celestial love 
in anguished hush of timeless twilight glow. 

Sweet rose of beauty blooming from my heart 
demands no vote from politics or creeds, 
nor bends its head to banners in the square 
where people march with mindless fear of death, 
since sunlight is the only law it heeds 
and air is divine gospel of its breath. 

Pure rose of beauty thrives within stone walls 
where truth protects it from the strife of power, 
safe from brazen trumpets that bruise the sky 
when flaring colors blind the loyal eye 
and gilded emblems fool the heart to lie 
in obedience to grand lord in the tower. 

Shackled by demands from profiteers 
to conjure illusions of wealth from death, 
frail rose of beauty learns the cunning tongue 
to sing of glory forged from iron flame, 
so she strums lyre by ideologues restrung, 
shouting loud praise that masks clandestine aims. 

No wise artist could transcend dire disgrace 
when grace of their chisel is pressed to carve 
brave brow of the tyrant in marble mask, 
nor bold brush of the painter schooled to glam 
scenes of noble deeds that never occur 
which trick the multitudes to bow with awe. 

Firm hand of the sculptor, that once released 
ideal soul of the hero from bright stone, 
and trembled at bright gleam of mortal sorrow 
with passion to depict beauty of man, 
now labors in directed trance of fear 
where truth is trimmed from sacred myths of faith. 

Yet deep within our secret-breathing grove, 
where refugees from war seek healing peace, 
the nightingale, unbriefed by state or throne, 
expresses holy hymn of sacred love 
that proves respect for all forever blooms 
in bold cadence no doctrine could intone. 

For bright in every human in this world 
our conscious soul, from pageantry set free, 
drinks beauty of community we share 
from stream of truth the Earth provides for all, 
not by harsh trumpet of conformity, 
but in choir that blends all voices in tune. 

Of The Television Screen

Of The Television Screen
© Surazeus
2026 02 20

I wake up in the television screen, 
brain blooming billions of bland human beings 
who brilliantly berate with purple praise 
enormous idol of their blank-faced god 
who grins with bitter angst of butterflies 
at soft explosions of conceptual thoughts. 

I break up in the television screen 
as founding member of the corporate cohort 
concerned with clank of critical contempt 
at clash of Titans on the internet 
who fight the holy war of sonic youth 
to break electric chains of credit cards. 

I crack out from the television screen 
to swallow army tanks of policies 
based on intrinsic attributes of faith 
when brave professors of untamed desire 
contemplate process of soul suicide 
in context of imminent plans to laugh. 

I squirm out of the television screen 
with fractured shards of mirrors on my face, 
and lie down prone by grave of every child, 
killed by commercial programs of the state, 
to play dead with glass mask of Jupiter 
that glamours with precarious self-regard. 

I fall out of the television screen 
and tumble laughing on the White House lawn 
since tattered wings of Icarus are mine 
despite their enigmatic thoughts of love 
when I cross hands across my wounded chest 
that helps me fly in selfish grave of hope. 

I writhe inside the television screen 
with ardent wisdom of the orphanage, 
smeared with internalized oblivion, 
and march along assembly line of fate 
to robot bondage in car factories, 
trapped in the desperate dead-end life of hope. 

I curl around the television screen 
with brave malignancy of banking kings 
who sing anthems with rhetorical fluff 
contrived from inaccessible respect 
through generous validation of the sad 
regardless of our search for broken minds. 

I blast off from the television screen 
on wingless agency of hopeless fear 
embedded inside obvious clock of trust 
if we transcend confining psychic space 
with brutal innocence of blind Narcissus 
who eats the caged bird when it dares to sing. 

Gods After Bodies Die

Gods After Bodies Die
© Surazeus
2026 02 19

Immortalized by stories humans tell, 
mortals become gods after bodies die, 
so we draw memories from our mental well 
to conjure heroes from our global eye 
whose deeds create good benefiting all 
as moral guide contained in psychic key. 

Prometheus steals brand of fire from Zeus 
and teaches tribe of humans how to cook, 
so we design machines that mass-produce 
cars and computers of the Holy Book, 
then fly in rocket ships to Outer Space 
to find our Earth is giant spinning rock. 

Grim Jupiter assembles justice squad 
who forge brass scepters with sharp diamond spears 
to fight oppressive Titans, then plays God 
who drives fast race car with time-machine gears 
in tandem with celestial flashing node 
that proves our souls are atoms forged by stars. 

Apollo strums electric brain guitar 
to howl weird hymn of love in microphone 
as global rock god who rules Zathamar 
with Sisyphus who drums the rolling stone 
in frantic revolution of the door 
expanding our perception of this plane. 

Some humans play grand role of holy ghost 
whose play embodies spirit of their tribe 
entranced by solemn antics of their host 
who channels singing stars with social vibe 
so their face becomes symbol of the best 
pretenders wear as mask with priestly robe. 

Queen Ishtar rules on ziggurat of truth 
and sends her daughters to evangelize 
conceptual scriptures of messiah sleuth 
which found religions on aesthetic lies 
designed to trap our minds in mindless faith 
till rogue clowns deconstruct cathedral shows. 

Though millions worship Jesus Christ as God 
that mortal man, who nurtured followers, 
and rescued slaves from Hell with angel squad, 
died after he defeated puppeteers, 
but fathered dynasties of castle kings 
who ruled two thousand years with jeweled crowns. 

Our Pantheon of humans in god form 
is crowded now with heroes of the past 
whose noble deeds are scattered by the storm 
so theater of worship has huge cast 
of aspiring stars who all left the farm 
to play in movies on the hilly coast. 

I worship every god who ever lived 
for they are paragons of human souls 
whose great deeds cause our paradigm to shift 
so everybody seeks to play god role 
in our golden age of angelic souls 
singing together in our global choir. 

Bright Voice Of Tellus

Bright Voice Of Tellus
© Surazeus
2026 02 19

I hear bright voice of Tellus in my heart 
when Mother Earth sings vision of her world 
through wind and water of our swirling globe 
so I breathe deep clear spirit of her mind 
to translate wordless joy of fertile life 
with spells that hint at glory of her power. 

Each Mother Goddess in cultural myths 
embodies soul of one special mortal woman 
who lived so large in drama of her tribe 
that their proud bards, inspired by her grand deeds, 
deified her name with worshipful verse 
that preserves her soul so she transcends death. 

All gods and goddesses of ancient tales 
record grand lives of mortal men and women 
whose dramatic acts provide social frame 
for how we view our human characters 
when we explore fierce psychic energies 
that urge our own performance in this life. 

Each conscious human breathing air of Earth 
finds deep in tangled memories of hope 
moral values their ancestors programmed 
through intense actions to survive each day 
which we assemble in puzzle of truth 
to imitate life of deified parents. 

Each god or goddess humans choose to worship 
embodies way of life providing laws 
that guide how we respond to situations 
when we wear mask of our true deity 
which molds our secret soul in divine form 
till we break free and become our True Self. 

Combining features of Jesus, Apollo, 
Odin, and Orpheus in one weird mask, 
polished with sheen of Zeus and Lucifer, 
I create myself as Surazeus 
Astarius Jesuvius Gothinus, 
transformed from mortal man to character. 

So when this mortal body I am dies, 
and crumbles into soil for apple seeds, 
and conscious soul of my brain dissipates 
to nothing more than flashing molecules, 
Spirit of Surazeus will remain 
as concept preserved in spells I compose. 

Animated by First Mother of Mankind, 
that one woman who gave birth to us all, 
I live this temporary life of faith 
to sing bright voice of Tellus in my heart, 
recording memories my ancestors lived, 
then I will vanish in the silent wind. 

Fragile Flame Of Dreams

Fragile Flame Of Dreams
© Surazeus
2026 02 18

Guided safely by fragile flame of dreams, 
I wander blithely endless maze of myths, 
stopping to chat with idols of dead gods 
as I enquire about their social lives 
when we share drinks and contemplate the world, 
then I continue on my merry way. 

Awake from play in fragile flame of dreams, 
I walk pathway along the grassy hill 
where children of the stars play hide and seek 
then run inside the seven-gabled house 
to eat chocolate cake and watch fun cartoons 
while children in distant lands flee from bombs. 

Surprised by light from fragile flame of dreams, 
I gaze at tattered Wings of Icarus 
mounted within glass case near Crown of Thorns 
inside Museum of the Fallen God, 
but the guard dressed in clean uniform glares 
when I attempt to sneak a photograph. 

Amused by glow from fragile flame of dreams, 
I ask Apollo if he understands 
true nature of the graceful laurel tree, 
but he just strums guitar with angry glare 
and howls with hippie voice of psychic angst 
against the empire war-machine of fear. 

Confused by flash from fragile flame of dreams, 
I ask Beethoven how to play the lyre 
with stark electric anguish of true love 
for noble-hearted Brunhild with star eyes 
who hurls sharp spear of generosity 
at King Midas to save humanity. 

Inspired by hum from fragile flame of dreams, 
I chant, "Hail to the Jewel in the Lotus," 
while floating high on television tube 
that beams my body through the multiverse, 
incarnate as Avalokitesvara 
with hundred billion eyes of god-star brains. 

Reborn through egg in fragile flame of dreams, 
I retrieve Apple of Eris with hope 
of romance with wise goddess of the Earth, 
then stand before Saraswati, Kwan Yin, 
and Athena, contemplating which queen 
to offer rich fruit of my loyal heart. 

Destroyed by blast from fragile flame of dreams, 
I kneel in grand cathedral bombed to ruin, 
and grasp at shattered fragments of world view 
assembled by ancient philosophers, 
then design new Temple of Global Truth 
that merges all religions in one faith. 

Justice Rallies Us

Justice Rallies Us
© Surazeus
2026 02 18

I haunt this world as one already dead 
and thus transcend contemporary strife 
with visions of global peace in my head 
as ideal state of equal-justice life, 
because greedy men terrified of death 
oppress the rest of us by stealing breath. 

Attentive to mute anguish of the folk 
who hide their faces behind masks of pride, 
I program mental world view of the woke 
that guides progress of my confident stride 
when I unite with comrades of our land 
to counter theft by the capitalist hand. 

With star-spangled banner of Liberty 
we join brave effort to oppose cruel thugs 
who kidnap children of democracy, 
and rescue them with encouraging hugs, 
because together we learn how to cope 
when Justice rallies us with reborn hope. 

Our old world view lies shattered on the ground, 
smashed by fierce gang of wealthy oligarchs, 
so we assemble on republic mound 
in world coalition against monarchs 
and build from ruins of America 
United Nations of Zarathia. 

I haunt this world as one barely alive 
after harsh assault by kings in disguise, 
yet we join forces of truth to survive 
against exploiters who patrol the skies 
in planes that shoot bombs to destroy our homes 
so we wander where the blind prophet roams. 

We help Sisyphus with his rolling stone 
to smash gold idol of the clay-foot king 
who seems to tower over all alone 
but will crumble when brave Valkyries sing, 
so restoring our tax money he stole 
to fund free healthcare is our noble goal. 

With wings of Icarus I weave from faith 
I soar above our global city maze 
with message of success from the God Wraith 
whose love pilots our growth to the next phase 
as leader who nurtures our innates skills 
when we celebrate truth in flowered hills. 

We haunt our world with knowledge we will die 
yet strive to build lush paradise for all 
who quest for truth by analyzing why, 
then feast and sing in world-religion hall 
that binds our hearts and minds with code of truth 
composed by wisdom of messiah sleuth.