Writhing Agony Of Love

Writhing Agony Of Love
© Surazeus
2026 05 29

Shocked by how often angels fall from Heaven, 
I express ardent anguish of concern 
that Earth is now littered with wounded souls 
who search for paradise of innocence 
that may only exist in morning dreams 
of lounging by the river eating fruit. 

We dream of how life could be on this Earth 
based on memories all our ancestors lived 
life after life in garden of fruit trees, 
plucking fruit from the wide generous world, 
though always watching out for hidden snakes 
who lie that we can gain eternal life. 

Those golden eyes gleam bright with eager hope 
that conjure visions of eternal life 
each morning as we taste sweet fruit of faith 
though our lithe bodies soon begin to fail, 
and youthful strength withers as we decay 
to stumble in decrepit solitude. 

Writhing in anguish on the forest floor, 
from helpless agony of bitter hope, 
that like our parents we crumble to dust 
after rotting flesh is consumed by worms, 
we cry out to the empty faceless sky 
for arcane secret to live beyond death. 

Bright halo of the sun that blinds my eyes 
surrounds head of strange angel who appears 
as if they descend from gold clouds of faith, 
so I grasp hand extended with concern 
and stand to face the mirror of my face 
that smiles at me with pure innocent grace. 

Aroused by passion of conceptual plan 
to share sweet pleasure of warm juicy kiss, 
we open arms of lonely hearts with trust 
to cling with gentle honesty of faith, 
embraced in writhing agony of love 
that merges separate bodies in one mind. 

Dissolving boundaries between our souls 
in frantic mission to transcend cold death, 
we share excessive heat of loneliness 
till soaring angel seed of ardent hope 
penetrates global egg of singing truth 
till we are pregnant with divine god soul. 

New child born from our passionate embrace 
grows strong and bright-eyed with innocent grace 
so we teach them to describe what they see 
till they perceive true essence of all things, 
then we lie down to die in happiness 
that we have gained eternal life in them. 

Ultimate Origin Of All Souls

Ultimate Origin Of All Souls
© Surazeus
2026 05 28

Floating in the alternate universe 
where I am not brave sailor on the ship 
destined to overthrow city of Troy, 
I strut with vampire grace on empty stage 
before the camera that adores my face, 
eager to time-slip back to my own world. 

We run toward each other on windless beach, 
faces glowing in sunset of desire, 
but just as we are about to embrace 
I teleport on wings of Icarus 
alone to some alternate universe 
where I pick grapes in vineyard of the Lord. 

Serapis strides among the cheering crowd 
in shining streets of Alexandria 
with gold-haired angel Seraph by his side 
whose star-eyed lion whips long serpent tail, 
till they all vanish in hot winds of time 
at whoosh of cars controlled by traffic lights. 

I hear sweet voice of Seraph call my name, 
so I rise up at midnight from my bed 
and stroll Garden of Eden in moonlight 
to find map of Oleron on the bench 
beside Fountain of Youth that has run dry 
just as I decide I should learn to fly. 

When I find old knight slouched on marble steps 
before Temple of Apollo at dawn, 
which is now some Presbyterian church, 
he recites his quest for the Holy Grail 
that had left him homeless and destitute 
till he found Jesus in the hungry poor. 

His wide eyes blazing with fanatic faith, 
he tells me how he gave water and bread 
to old sick man slouching before the bank 
who transformed into Jesus with star eyes, 
just like Supreme God Vishnu Bhagavan 
manifests through Krishna, the mortal seer. 

All-pervading cosmic reality 
glows as absolute formless god of light 
in every conscious mortal being of flesh 
who has ever lived in the universe 
as ultimate origin of all souls 
who radiates countless gods in human brains. 

I am no Arjuna nor Sir Launfal, 
so I skip along winding road of life 
on my way from Scotland to Maryland 
where I fall in love with wise Onatah 
who teaches me how to grow and cook corn 
in true fairy land of Zarathia. 

Spirit Of The Wounded God

Spirit Of The Wounded God
© Surazeus
2026 05 28

Lost in the endless maze of burning books, 
Percival searches for the Holy Grail 
while ignoring the homeless, sick, and poor 
who linger at the gates of Paradise, 
till the sparkle-eyed fairy Tryamour 
offers him love and wealth in secrecy. 

From halls of Cardevyle he rides away 
with jeweled keys he swiped from Lancelot 
to find the charming Lady of Shallot 
who bakes sweet apple pies from Tree of Life, 
but dainty Tryamour pursues his path 
to find he weeping on the bridge of fate. 

Though I am not the gentle knight you love, 
sly Percival cries with anguish of hope, 
I hope you sense sincerity I feel 
and choose to travel road of life with me, 
so haughty Tryamour buys fancy yacht 
and sails with him to misty Oleron. 

When Percival slides down steep sandy dune 
and stumbles on the ocean shore of fate, 
he discovers long-haired Acrisius, 
ancient king of some long-forgotten land, 
weeping over skull of his noble son 
stoned by Medusa with her piercing eyes. 

When Percival tries to wake the Slumbering God 
with haunting melodies of ocean waves, 
sweet Tryamour consults the Oracle 
to ask when he will find the Holy Grail, 
but Sibyl chuckles in her golden cage 
and mumbles something about the White Crow. 

Returning to work at the city bank, 
after fishing all weekend on the sea, 
Percival calculates profits and loss 
from too many defaulting mortgage loans, 
so he strolls the riverside park at noon 
where hungry homeless dwell in tattered tents. 

Would you prefer to live in Fairy Land 
with me and all my sisters with star eyes, 
clever Tryamour asks the shy bank clerk, 
who brings boxes of food in his white van 
every afternoon to the homeless camp 
who ask him if he found the Holy Grail. 

I see in people suffering poverty, 
who lost the intense capitalist game, 
Percival says to his wife, Tryamour, 
true holy spirit of the Wounded God 
whose light of honest love shines in the hearts 
of those who feel we all deserve respect. 

Born As Adventist

Born As Adventist
© Surazeus
2026 05 27

Awake in endless desert forged from bones, 
designed by swirls of agony and joy 
in storm of sensation that blooms as trees 
from urgency of faith in what is real, 
I feel my body transform from weird words 
that mold mirror mask over my flesh face. 

Struck by epiphany of curling roots 
that provide general guidelines in dream code 
for submission of desire to world peace, 
my mind expands from adventurous seed 
to borrow wings of Icarus with pride 
so I can fly above my memory maze. 

Beneath wild sea of calm anxiety, 
where angels invent mental telephones 
from writhing tendrils of demonic clowns, 
my family swims in swirls of holy hymns 
through false argument of glib poverty, 
constrained by social rules of hungry hope. 

Lush meadow on credible sunlit moors  
lures my enchanted heart to settle down 
in vain attempt at prayer with humble trees 
to buy salvation from the fractured stone 
who still repeats forged riddle of despair 
at taste of honey oozing from my tongue. 

Born as Adventist in small prairie house, 
composed of pine logs from dark Raven Wood, 
I stare at glowing clouds of fearful faith 
to watch for Phoebus Christ on beating wings 
who may descend from palace in the sky 
to cast all evil tyrants in hot hell. 

Witness to turbulent eddies of change, 
which surge from energetic hearts of souls 
ambitious to assert bold right to dwell 
by azure pond where honest demons lurk 
with divine grace in morbid field of thoughts, 
I lounge on porch of my cabin and laugh. 

Not deep enough to shield my wounded heart, 
too eager to escape dutiful play, 
our secret pond conceals my naked mind 
from privileged arrogance of stolen wealth 
so I build houses on the roadless plain 
for wanderers to dwell in tense accord. 

Death carries me across the codeless plain 
and lays my fragile soul on dire lake shore 
where brave blue heron shields my humble hearth 
with tender wings of innocent respect, 
so I compose in secret book of lies 
my fake memoir with blood of gods as ink. 

Wake Through Weird Visions

Wake Through Weird Visions
© Surazeus
2026 05 27

Without any explanation for why 
we wander endless maze of life on Earth, 
we each invent our own reason for being 
so our hearts blaze with blinding light of faith 
that guides our steps through obstacles of fear 
to eat and sing till we decay and die. 

This glorious hour of timeless ecstasy 
when we consume sweet fruit of wordless angst 
and dance without restraint of social rules 
in aching passion to transcend this world 
and soar among high clouds to paradise 
now seems to vanish in mute flash of dawn. 

This cup of juice I lift with trembling hand 
to toast strange beauty of our vibrant life 
I drain to bitter dregs of final death 
that crushes lithe bodies to nothingness 
and scatters dust of our bones in dry fields 
where flowers mock us with indifferent dance. 

Bright dream of faith that swells my throbbing head 
with awesome sense of pure divinity 
convinces me my conscious sense of self, 
by which my mind conceives immortal life, 
will outlast transient pulsing of my flesh 
so I might live again after I die. 

That unknown country beyond bourn of death 
from which no traveler ever returns 
is nowhere in this realm of changing forms, 
so I keep walking endless road of hope 
to leap beyond abyss of nothingness, 
yet I soon realize I deceive myself. 

How sweet this weird enchanting sound of grace 
which I express from wretched fear of death 
that every human walking this vast world 
is lost with me on signless road of faith 
so we together overcome all snares 
in toil to build our real Heaven on Earth. 

Since we shall vanish from this spinning Earth 
when conscious sense of self will dissipate, 
though atoms of our bodies will transform 
to soil applied by roots to conjure fruit, 
we choose to celebrate with solemn joy 
that we at least are still alive this hour. 

I never find explanation for why 
Earth generates our bodies from the sea 
by weaving carbon strands of sparkling hope 
in neural network of our dreaming brains, 
so I decide light of the universe 
strives to wake through weird visions my heart sings. 

Ruined Temple Of Masks

Ruined Temple Of Masks
© Surazeus
2026 05 26

If deviant people climb steeple of faith 
with hope to fly on wings of Icarus 
from sorrow of Earth to pleasure of Heaven, 
they might wonder what faith really entails 
as they fall back into turmoil of time, 
soul trapped inside the sponge brain of the self. 

Consider the horse that grazes on grass 
and wanders meadow of arrogant wind 
within sacred bounds of the barbed-wire fence, 
and remember when we explored the world 
racing across endless plains of desire 
till we colonized ever river shore. 

I never see horses anywhere now 
while I drive my car in vast maze of streets 
past buildings of mysterious intent 
where only long-dead gods are innocent, 
so I climb the mountain of timeless truth 
and sit in the ruined temple of masks. 

So many moments of embarrassment 
startle my daily strut of confidence 
because I forget how clumsy I am 
stumbling randomly on road of my fate 
though I attempt to swerve from ordained track 
through free will basic to my character. 

Lost in dark forest with my Golden Wreath, 
as savage beast transformed by curse of faith, 
I wander nowhere past the Promised Land 
till beautiful daughter of the Moon God 
sees my human soul inside the white bear, 
therefore her love restores my human form. 

Wearing white-bear mask of King Valemon, 
I play my role in television show 
that people watch when Earth is veiled with snow 
since I restore Kingdom of Avalon 
when I defeat Cruel Troll in the White House 
by tricking him to steal the Crown of Thorns. 

When I am done uniting Earth in peace, 
I return to my planet far away 
which in Terrish is named Zarathia 
because First Mother Zaratha creates 
our bodies from electric rainbow eyes 
with first flash that flares forth from the big bang. 

So join me at kitchen table of faith 
to feast well in ruined temple of masks 
where face of every human who has lived 
on every planet in the universe 
sings story of their life in riddle-verse 
preserved in Book of Souls by the Star Wraith. 

Futile Television Shows

Futile Television Shows
© Surazeus
2026 05 26

Earth eats beauty and ugliness alike, 
and grave of time abundant hope consumes, 
since happiness and sorrow dissipate 
together in vast sweep of mindless wind, 
thus I maintain calm rituals of delight 
to treasure ornaments till endless night. 

Though pleasure increase beauty in new forms 
from fertile fields of wisdom spurred by hope, 
time crushes beauty into twisted lust 
for aching urgency to transcend death, 
yet I accept decay of vital flesh 
that scatters atoms of my self in wind. 

This self I build from memories of hope, 
composed of actions I perform from need, 
will crack in fragments of dismembered days 
lit by sunlight of long-lost afternoons 
in cities far from where I dwell today, 
preserved in futile television shows. 

I look in mirror of reflective thoughts 
to study how mask of my face has changed 
through sixty years of urgent ardency 
to play grand role of potent fortitude 
my mind believes Fate commissioned for me 
to stamp my sign on documents of truth. 

My golden prime decays to brazen mask 
that hangs on walls of clean suburban homes 
preserving moment of bright agency 
that fades in voiceless rooms of timeless dream 
contrived to flash beyond posterity 
as traffic signal red with flame of truth. 

Should rich bequest of Nature flush my heart 
with noble legacy of solemn hymns 
that hail true beauty pulsing in brave hearts 
of voiceless people struggling to survive, 
then light my soul casts to part veil of gloom 
may guide staunch wanderers on road of truth. 

Thus I attend my golden pilgrimage 
to climb steep hill of heavenly respect 
through strength of duty to enhance world view 
that frames chaos of Nature with strict rules 
designed to guide our quest on righteous way 
where our deeds create rather than destroy. 

Sweet music I sing to forge strong concord 
in lithe communal network of brave souls 
embraces every wanderer with hope 
that honest nurture of talents to skills 
disarms cruel exploitation of blind greed 
so our faulty Heaven secures all life. 

I Want To Believe

I Want To Believe
© Surazeus
2026 05 26

False as devils wearing bright angel masks 
are those who willfully misunderstand 
specific statements that assert clear points 
contrary to selfish motives through greed 
their tangled words conceal in trite bromides 
that dislocate perverted attributes. 

While I keep my head in the stars of dream 
I bind my body to the ground of truth 
when I investigate uncanny tales 
of alien beings from planets far away 
who buzz our globe in saucers of star gems 
to document the hoax of dreamless facts. 

When the Men in Black appear in my house, 
beaming down from starship in the sky, 
they spread angelic wings of glowing silk 
to gaze deep in my mind with crystal eyes 
that project visions of the universe 
so I see spiral coil of cosmic truth. 

Ten thousand orbs of light flash in the sky 
over ten thousand towns across the land 
so journalists in cars speed lone highways 
to chase gray aliens across desert plains 
to end of the rainbow where ghosts of fear 
vanish in sudden gust of wordless wind. 

I want to believe, the agent declares, 
while gathering evidence of aliens, 
and photographs god in the flying machine 
who arrives with wisdom of ancient souls 
to usher in New Age of Peace on Earth 
so all social conflicts evaporate. 

Call them angels or devils in spaceships, 
the crazy man in the tinfoil hat shouts, 
but they are ancient demons from the stars 
who rise up from the surging sea of fear 
as Godzilla who rules Earth with despair, 
while waving blurry photographs of planes. 

Wide-eyed Icarus on the Silver Bridge 
spreads white wings wide against storm-blasting wind 
and howls with hope in grim Plutonian night 
as millions of people gaze in his eyes 
that hypnotize their minds with secret truth 
so they call for aliens to save our world. 

When storm clouds part at blazing flash of dawn, 
Jesus beams down from Starship Enterprise 
and walks among all nations on our globe 
who proclaim him Emperor of the Earth, 
so I turn off that television show 
and sit on my front porch to play guitar. 

Golden Apple Eris Threw

Golden Apple Eris Threw
© Surazeus
2026 05 25

If I could but teleport anywhere 
when my heart beats frantic with fear of death, 
then I would visit soulmate of my heart 
though she lives on the other side of Earth, 
so in domestic quietude of love 
we may embrace in garden of respect. 

If no celestial light may inward shine 
and through divinity of weird insight 
irradiate my mind with ancient truth, 
then I would record in conceptual spells 
ideal social state fair laws should support 
against which oligarchs forever fight. 

If I may reconstruct this broken world 
on noble principles of honest hope 
that could heal damaged hearts of wounded souls, 
then I would foil with repetitious tricks 
greedy thieves that hijack our government 
and free humanity from psychic debt. 

If I escape loud television shows 
on fierce angelic wings of Icarus 
with brave intent of courage to oppose 
cruel tyrants seeking to enslave mankind, 
then I would drive my car to work at dawn 
to map progress of human ardency. 

If I hear song of brave Persephone 
reverberate through halls of government 
about her plan to free the human heart, 
then I would walk bright Paris streets at dawn 
to find the Golden Apple Eris threw 
so I can choose Athena as my bride. 

If I could step in the same river twice 
to measure ceaseless flow of mental change 
and map configuration of dream time, 
then I would build bronze monument to truth 
to share with Heraclitus chocolate milk 
and ginger cookies in the Parthenon. 

If I could spin fate by the ticking clock 
that rewinds code of human history 
which proves my crazy theory true at last, 
then I would play role of new Thunder God, 
vulnerable to emotional compassion, 
while Phoebus plays organ in the glass church. 

If I should hear the dead speak my new name 
with mountain-echo voice of Raven Ghost, 
then I will strum lost lyre of Mercury, 
and sing while Empire of America 
burns from pillage of cruel oligarchs 
when the White House sinks in mud of contempt. 

Demon Trapped In Her Heart

Demon Trapped In Her Heart
© Surazeus
2026 05 25

Weird silence after the violin tune, 
that adjusts the universe slightly slant, 
convinces Charlotte she just might be dead, 
but she stands after the applause dies down 
and almost floats out of the theater 
because her spirit shimmers in moonlight. 

Shocked by shadow of her face in gold glass 
that wavers thin as candleflame of faith, 
shy Charlotte cringes when her husband grins 
at how he will beat her when they get home, 
so she tries to disappear in moonlight 
that wakes strange demon in stream of her heart. 

Beside her husband in the atrium, 
who chats with senators and generals, 
dear Charlotte hides her terror behind mask 
of gentle smiles and clear attentive eyes 
that constrain the demon trapped in her heart, 
while she hears voices speak in secret code. 

Riding with Death in black carriage of fate, 
that clatters wheels of fortune at midnight 
along the winding streets of destiny, 
Charlotte ponders state of eternity 
while breathing deep to engage in soul flight 
till they arrive at their palace estate. 

Stepping from carriage in glow of moonlight, 
Charlotte wraps her body in devil wings 
to hide her wounded heart in timeless gloom, 
then raises pistol in her trembling hand 
and fires one bullet in his glaring eye, 
then turns and flees into the Whisper Woods. 

Hiding behind the garden fountain pool, 
Charlotte stares in shock at the bearded man 
who asks her with official police voice 
if she saw face of the evil assassin 
who dropped the pistol when he fired the shot, 
but she shakes her head and cries in light of dawn. 

Gaunt face of grief hidden by black-lace veil, 
Charlotte beams with uncanny happiness 
as she listens to the old priest declare 
that we come from dust, and to dust return, 
then tosses on his coffin one red rose 
while heavenly angels in gold clouds sing. 

Sweet silence after the violin tune, 
that readjusts the slanted universe, 
convinces Charlotte she will never die, 
so she runs gracefully in garden maze 
in flirtatious chase with the young musician 
to kiss with passion by the apple tree. 

Fragile Faith In Death

Fragile Faith In Death
© Surazeus
2026 05 25

Inspired to live by fragile faith in death, 
I stroll streets of Paris in evening breeze 
to find elusive ghost of sad Pierrot 
who waits on every street corner at dawn 
for me to offer wounded heart of love 
with honest acceptance of nothingness. 

Startled awake by fragile faith in death, 
I tell everyone I meet on the street 
that I am son of Sylphus and Diana 
who taught me how to play the folk guitar, 
but no one ever stops to hear my songs 
because I prophesy how tyrants fall. 

Still energized by fragile faith in death, 
I gaze at planets through the telescope 
to study angels on their spinning globes 
because I long to leave this world behind 
and climb Stairway to Heaven with Dream Map 
that misdirects my quest from paradise. 

My heart enhanced by fragile faith in death, 
I wish I could design new paradigm 
based on fair justice of flexible law 
that solves every problem humans endure 
in struggle to secure their place on Earth 
where they tend garden of fruit in strong walls. 

Reluctant to keep fragile faith in death, 
I sell my memories to strangers in stores 
who hang them on blank walls of lonely homes 
to feel soft anguish of my wordless loss 
each time they win awards in social games 
they use to purchase new electric cars. 

Concealed from hope by fragile faith in death, 
I paint face of World Savior on brick walls 
in murals that depict grand world events 
when wounded men in voiceless tribes of fear 
speak loud with eloquence of fractured moons 
against oppression of the racist state. 

Dismayed with fear by fragile faith in death, 
I gather bricks of homes destroyed by bombs, 
and tape on each one half-burned photograph 
depicting each beautiful human being 
killed by obsessive greed of corporate kings, 
then drift oarless on ship of hopelessness. 

Lured to Heaven by fragile faith in death, 
I tend deserted garden by the sea 
where ghost of Eden shimmers in moonlight, 
so I gaze in her eyes with selfless love, 
encoding her lessons in holy psalms 
that wanderers sing for ten thousand years. 

Third Man Of Antarctica

Third Man Of Antarctica
© Surazeus
2026 05 25

Each time I turn around, and turn around, 
to ask the Third Man, wrapped in long brown mantle, 
why he walks beside us on the White Road, 
he seems to vanish in the swirling mist, 
so I continue on my bitter quest 
while he remains in shadow of my heart. 

Weird spiders in dark garden of my heart 
conceal the prize of aeronautic truth 
that urges my adventure to explore 
beyond the insulating walls of faith 
unworldly landscape of Antarctica 
where the Third Man rules as blind emperor. 

If I infiltrate valleys of black snow 
to find ovarian ghost of pregnant faith 
twisting rainbow beams in radar roulette, 
my heart may hum with quantum innocence 
each time the Third Man gives me puzzling fruit 
that readjusts my frame of reference. 

When bones of dragons with enormous minds 
are found concealed in sleek Antarctic ice, 
my heart may spring from cracked stone of the moon 
to misalign routine of secret hope 
that soon the Third Man will unwrite our dreams 
at sudden transfer no one dares accept. 

Crushed by assertive bitterness of ice, 
our wood ship, named Endurance with bold faith, 
splinters into fragments of bleak despair, 
and leaves us stranded on Antarctic plain 
where the Third Man guides our wind-battered way 
across the jagged mountains of desire. 

Time past appears in cycles of regret 
that traps us in time present about fate 
with endless blast of wind against the mask 
that shields my soul with fragile faith in death 
who appears as the Third Man in dark hood 
we choose to think is Angel of the Lord. 

Abundant flash of stellar avatars, 
who seek asylum in false paradise, 
attend solemn service of architects 
commissioned to build palace of grand halls 
on storm-sculpted plain of Antarctica 
where the Third Man waits for us to return. 

I see the Third Man of Antarctica 
appear in flash of vast angelic wings 
above my head in swirling clouds of change, 
so I reach out my hands with eager faith 
when Phoebus Christ descends from empty sky 
to beam his spirit in my wounded heart. 

Find The Hidden Star

Find The Hidden Star
© Surazeus
2026 05 25

If no dead angels are found on the street 
nobody will throw them on the trash heap, 
yet the girl who paints make-up on her dolls 
always mistakes them for infernal trolls, 
so she transforms them into graceful cats 
who insist that angels are really bats. 

Sophie weeps for the boys in uniform 
shot in war to make slavery the norm, 
whose mangled bodies rot in summer sun 
while she stares in shock at the blood-stained gun 
her brother leaned against the bedroom wall 
while his horse flicks her tail in the barn stall. 

When Death knocks on the farm door at midnight, 
Sophie sees his face glowing with moonlight, 
so she gives him cup of chocolate to drink 
while he sits by the glowing hearth to think 
about how time unravels dreamless souls 
who think they are born to play special roles. 

Kneeling by lace-curtained window of faith, 
Sophie prays for insight from the Star Wraith, 
but all she hears in rustle of elm trees 
are voices of the dead as buzz of bees 
who explain nothing about why we die 
as she watches sunrise bleed from the sky. 

Trapped by necessity to calculate 
how rhymes help our spirits navigate 
confusing maze of myths with psychic tropes, 
Sophie records details of intense hopes 
she harbors in secret cove of her heart 
that will appear on no nautical chart. 

Laughter echoes in halls of the wood house 
where Sophie sings hymn in her favorite blouse 
with voice that fades in plangent prairie winds 
so her heart starts to ache where the road bends 
beyond horizon of Ohio hills 
in townless valley of innocent rills. 

For thirty days she rides the wagon far 
on noble quest to find the hidden star 
that gleams above the Rocky Mountain range, 
though she almost cries at the need to change 
from social turmoil of the civil war 
that shatters truth outside her bedroom door. 

No angels rot on Colorado plains 
so bones dissolve in cataclysmic rains 
where Sophie builds new house from memories 
which she hides as riddles in arcane keys 
that gleam in tangled neurons of my mind 
to bloom in fruit trees of weird truth I find. 

Organic Frames Of Thought

Organic Frames Of Thought
© Surazeus
2026 05 24

If souls of heroes in movies and books 
are trapped in stones along the river stone, 
then I shall free them from loop of their plot 
so they may craft another way to live 
because we choose state of our destiny 
through actions we perform with our free will. 

Trapped in ten thousand years of solitude 
defined by mountain wind of hopeless fear, 
I stand watch in tall tower of cold stone 
with brave intent of courage forged from flame 
to guard safe haven where my family dwells 
against cruel thieves who would enslave our souls. 

Though time unspools our private memories 
in random fragments of short puzzling scenes, 
imbued with ambience of that special time 
now lost from vibrant glowing of the world, 
I treasure eerie feeling of that hour 
so many years ago when I was young. 

Entangled by red thread of destiny 
we choose to weave in tapestry of love, 
our brave hearts spread angelic wings of love 
to fly united through fierce thunderstorms 
so we evade dire threats of mortal harm 
to overcome blunt obstacles with calm. 

Gold light of day glows canopy of trees 
that shade wide cement streets of gliding cars 
between square buildings of both brick and glass, 
for halls and roads are signified with names 
that aid my mind to map landscape of hope 
in nation spread out sea to shining sea. 

Though countless watches bound on wrists and walls 
assert harmonious progress of exchange 
through economic flow of give and take, 
my heart is not well synchronized with game 
of wealth accumulation to buy fame, 
for I dance out of step with fight for power. 

How strange that atoms spiraling in space 
from God Eye at core of the universe 
form swirling spheres of psychic energy 
from which evolve organic frames of thought 
who seek to grow in harmony with light 
when we project our conscious mind as God. 

Each day my temporary mind awakes 
from timeless dream of social spectacle, 
I feel electric flame pulse in my brain 
with stoic patience of the river stone 
from which my spirit beams on wings of breath 
as bee that pollinates the Tree of Truth. 

Insight Of Weird Gratitude

Insight Of Weird Gratitude
© Surazeus
2026 05 24

Excessive thoughts of bonus ardency 
expose conceptual pride of World God Mind 
that flashes vaguely true in radio songs 
with urgent insight of weird gratitude 
sent out in instant grams of doctored faith 
as scenes of beauty that inspire my heart. 

Because my body is less dead that stone 
and limbs of motion fly away alone, 
I prize computer screens of flashing words 
as stars that channel divine Mind of God 
through startled neurons of my Dreamless Brain, 
so I build House of Wisdom from cracked bone. 

Strange music leads me through assertive rain 
down endless streets of sorrow slick with rain, 
from gloom of faith to glowing hall of fear 
where demons paint on holy walls of bone 
reverent icons to the Mother and Child 
who grows to rule vast nations with brave law. 

What apparition on angelic wings 
descends from vast blue heaven of regret 
with arms outstretched to welcome every soul 
reborn as wingless angels who contend 
in global wars of Hadean prophecy 
to prove their father is true god of Earth. 

No frame of steel-glass towers could contain 
magnificent ghost of modest disdain 
with godless beauty of cerulean skies 
where demons and angels as men disguised 
sell each other medallions of false fame, 
inspired by passion of the tongueless flame. 

Born upward by rush of violent wind 
that swells from secret cavern of our hearts, 
we claim authority of perfect light 
speaks through our mortal bodies of frail flesh 
with holy spirit of celestial truth 
that motivates our souls to seek real truth. 

One delicate twisted flame from God Mind 
expands bright fireworks in Hall of My Mind 
so I feel bright immortal Soul of God 
wake in my brain brief hour of ecstasy 
since atoms of my soul flare forth from eye 
of light at center of the universe. 

When orange nasturtium of my aching heart 
blooms bright from ancient rotten corpse of god, 
I feel the special spirit of my soul 
wake my brief hour of all eternity, 
so I dance with grace on landscape of the world 
and sing about weird beauty till I die. 

Leather Satchel Of His Heart

Leather Satchel Of His Heart
© Surazeus
2026 05 24

Young boy fills leather satchel of his heart 
with forgotten tales his ancestors lived 
encased in seeds he gathers from the woods, 
then stands on mud shore of the timeless lake 
to gaze in liquid beauty of the sky 
that shows him face his progenitors wore. 

When sparrow in the elm tree by the lake 
sings sacred formula for thoughts of rain, 
young boy runs back to small hut by the stone 
where his grandmother sings with raspy voice, 
so he holds her hand as she smiles at him 
then vanishes in white smoke of the fire. 

White smoke becomes huge clouds above black hills 
that drench their jagged sorrows in cold rain 
which swirls in rivers over roots of trees 
where shadow of the young boy disappears 
till flash of lightning luminates his face 
that mimics demon mask of innocence. 

Three men, who shot old woman in her heart 
because she would not yield her bowl of gold, 
shriek terrified at sight of his red mask, 
so they fire rifles with bullets of rage 
at elusive demon that haunts their camp, 
but shoot each other in the gloom instead. 

Young boy fills leather satchel of his heart 
with memories of songs his grandmother sang 
encased in her bones he carves into flutes, 
then stares at wavering mask of his face 
that gleams in liquid beauty of the sky 
but ripples from tears that fall from his eyes. 

Twanging taut chord of his yew hunting bow, 
young boy recites songs his grandmother sang 
that recount adventures in mountain vales 
of Wolf Boy and Raven Girl who unite 
to protect the poor from greed of the rich 
and free the people from cruel tyranny. 

Young boy fills leather satchel of his heart 
with textbooks, rulers, pencils, and notepads, 
then walks small-town streets to the public school 
where he attends classes on liberal arts 
to study nature of the universe 
by utilizing tools of measurement. 

Songs of my grandmother glow in my heart 
ten thousand years of conscious energy 
that conjure virtual model of the world 
which I improve with weird secrets I learn 
so I can bequeath vision of the truth 
to children who spring from dream of my heart. 

Stream Of Silver Light

Stream Of Silver Light
© Surazeus
2026 05 24

The tall slender candle of mute desire 
gleams in virginal window of respect 
while Seraphus and Celestine sit prim 
at round glass table in their hotel room 
that overlooks silver Sequana River 
to eat lamb and wine in memory of Troy. 

Lounging on large white stone of secret faith 
inside small cave that gleams with emeralds 
where the River Seine springs from heart of Earth, 
Sequana eats grapes and listens to wrens 
that scurry along mossy rocks in roots, 
but frowns when Neptunus calls out her name. 

Trembling with awkward shyness of desire, 
Seraphus and Celestine, face to face 
by white lace curtains of pure innocence, 
reach out their hands with cautious hope of love 
to open windows of their hearts with care, 
then kiss to taste fruit from the Tree of Knowledge. 

Crouching in shadow of her jeweled cave 
where healing waters spring from heart of Earth, 
Sequana softly breathes celestial air 
to calm wild beating of her wingless heart 
as Neptunus searches thick forest of trees 
while he declares intent to mate with her. 

Beaming with pleasure after making love, 
Seraphus and Celestine eat breakfast, 
then she sits draped in long red gown of silk 
and plays enchanting tune on lyre-guitar 
while he paints her as Sequana the Nymph 
lounging in cave where the River Seine springs. 

Pushing ivy veil aside with brusque hand, 
Neptunus grins when he sees lithe river nymph, 
but she throws jagged stones at his chest 
and darts away when he grasps at her thighs, 
then ocean-tamer chases her through groves 
of trees that slap his chest to slow him down. 

Strolling along river park of the Seine, 
as clouds blaze gold across the evening sky, 
Seraphus and Celestine shyly blush 
as they hold hands beneath the weeping willow, 
and watch swans glide on stream of silver light, 
smiling when one flaps her angelic wings. 

When Neptunus, leaping on horse-swift legs, 
almost captures river nymph in his arms, 
lithe Sequana dodges and slips away, 
then grins with long gold hair and silver eyes 
as she transforms to stream of silver light 
and dances freely in the moonlit grove. 

Fake Words On The Ground

Fake Words On The Ground
© Surazeus
2026 05 23

Alert to shadow of death in tall trees, 
Celestine scatters fake words on the ground 
and pries thorns of happiness from her heart, 
then browses dresses in the chic boutique 
to purchase trend of upscale edginess 
tailored for the refined lady of faith. 

Exclusive demon lurking in tall grass 
decides to customize costume she wears 
with meticulous concern for cracked eyes, 
so Celestine dons brown jacket at dawn 
and sips coffee by the Venice canal 
where empty gondolas float in gold mist. 

Stopping in the middle of the glass bridge 
that spans the silent river of despair, 
Celestine wonders where she has come from 
and where she will go before the sun blinks 
with stunning insight of sorrow defied, 
or if she should entertain hope of death. 

With careful lines of elegant intent, 
Celestine divides fragments of lost time 
to measure wasted hours of earnest hope 
framed by parables of social respect 
in portraits that present uncanny scenes 
where nobody seems to know what they want. 

Staring at the clock in trunk of the oak, 
Celestine plans routine of lettered play, 
shattered by contempt for logical tricks, 
to puzzle formulas of bitter love, 
which proves her comfort zone is much too small 
to protect her heart from blind parasites. 

Now circumspect about her future path, 
Celestine neglects to seek twisted code, 
starved for new opportunities to tame 
fierce appetite for solving data traps 
through lurid analysis time presents 
as theories that explain why all brains die. 

If light hurts her eyes with bearable truth, 
Celestine waits by boulder of lost names 
for red raven to bring ribbon of ruth 
with furtive urgency of social power, 
designed to replicate our hearts of clay 
which guardian angels fold into false masks. 

Abated susurration of dead brains 
amplifies individual spells of faith 
that drip from wounded mouths of cautious clones 
despite knowledge that wave frequencies change 
relative to observer wearing mask 
with telescope embedded in her brain. 

Diamonds Of Eternal Stars

Diamonds Of Eternal Stars
© Surazeus
2026 05 23

The lonely traveler of everywhere 
wonders if his search for Rome will reveal 
foundations of truth built on bones of gods 
who still walk the streets in bodies of people 
because the Tiber still flows in their veins 
with grandeur resurrected from cracked stones. 

The fugitive from programmed time of chance 
maintains permanent residence with faith 
in ruins rebuilt into halls of glass 
that shimmer again on the Palatine 
where ghosts of warriors with ambitious plans 
participate in grand cathedral shows. 

The lonely traveler on endless roads 
admires quaint chapel with statue of Mary 
whose eyes are diamonds of eternal stars 
that gleam the nothing in our hungry hearts 
so we pray silently in candlelight 
with pious respect for beauty of death. 

Heroic dust of priests who ruled our minds 
will never assemble again into souls 
who climb high mountains of sincerity 
to tread golden stars of eternity 
with grim confidence in the afterlife 
where changeless ideas of things persist. 

Animal motivated by weird reason, 
I ride swift chariot on the battlefield 
and fire arrow of justice at the tyrant 
because Death haunts confidence of my path 
when I plow city towers to erase 
colonial empire of angelic pride. 

Secure within legalized walls of Heaven, 
Ziphion keeps watch in tower of desire 
to protect his family against invaders 
who brandish weapons of arrogant faith 
in holy righteousness of their lost cause 
because winners name the land for their father. 

Whatever her name and name of her son, 
the Mother and Child in temple of hope 
represent every family on Earth, 
so I forge key of faith from bones of god 
that opens every door of every home 
where we share songs from ancient books of flame. 

My heart filled with delight in the Great Being, 
though it glows indifferent to my success, 
seeks wisdom in the song of ocean waves 
which I translate to tangled sentences 
inadequate to portray the real world 
except as toy models of my childhood. 

Real Face Of God

Real Face Of God
© Surazeus
2026 05 23

If I could sing the sorrow of my heart 
without breaking innocence of the world, 
I would express harsh truth with shaking voice 
to render negative insouciant greed 
by which my fierce words transmit warranty 
against withdrawal violently reversed. 

No less versatile at weaving dream spells 
from fluttered fragments of weird memories, 
my heart procures precise reasons from fear 
to register our tangled fate with love 
irrelevant to thoughts of helpless rage 
concealed by frigid rules of false respect. 

If dire response to surgical concern 
requires social sacrifice through regret, 
then I would dare retrieve with sincere hope 
revenue of suffering supplied by scenes 
of brutal assault that impugn attempts 
by cruel aggressors to control my soul. 

No more aggressive than devilish greed 
from critical analysis of threats 
intended to injure secure desire, 
my heart devises secret strategy 
to turn acute observation of facts 
from mutant passion of potential faith. 

If I could optimize obvious path 
expanding radius of relevant pride 
with referenced records of financial growth, 
then I would dare pursue real happiness 
based on statistics no one understands, 
to play my game against accepted role. 

No further than the sudden end of time 
beyond conceptual theory of mute death 
could I extend insight of prophecy 
to see Real Face of God through telescope 
that renders only globes of spinning gas 
from which the star-eyed Seraphim are born. 

If time unspools synthetic creed of faith 
designed by mental therapist of death, 
I might survive this global war of truth 
fought between dream-blinded gangs of men 
who claim their god will resurrect their souls 
so they shall inherit Heaven on Earth. 

No longer treasured by world traveler 
who maps symbolic myth of noble deeds, 
fierce gods too long worshipped by gangs of thieves 
transform to idols of marble distrust 
that stand in museums of glorious lies 
so we see our own faces in their masks.