Riddles Of The Why

Riddles Of The Why
© Surazeus
2026 05 30

I like to float on wordless breath of thought 
as I pretend my soul cannot be bought, 
though children chasing shadows in the woods 
leave broken dreams in doorless neighborhoods, 
so I lie prone on couch of innocence 
to plot new revolution of good sense. 

I take my face off when the moon returns 
to look for lost book among rain-wet ferns 
since elevators drop me to my day 
because I still refuse the right to pray 
with fervent faith to no one in the sky 
who never answers riddles of the why. 

I want to make Sarmatia great again 
but I cannot find my gold fountain pen 
to write about how Queen Amage fought 
invaders with the sword her wisdom wrought 
that gleams invisible inside my heart 
with love for Alba and her apple cart. 

My heart resides in hills of Avalon 
though I was born in vale of Oregon 
so I hitchhike back east on signless road 
that leads me to dark lake of the God Toad 
who teaches me to play the Hermean lyre 
that channels energy of soul desire. 

When I row boat across the sloshing sea 
to forest where the white crow with glass key 
reveals strange secret of the golden flower 
that blooms from sorrow in the doorless tower, 
I legislate the sacred right to vote 
for global savior on the floating boat. 

We struggle to survive since hour of birth 
through strategic fight to control the Earth 
by constructing food-production machine 
designed to favor all by Melusine 
who guides my heart with riddles of the why 
so I project my god face at blue sky. 

My global revolution of good sense 
inspires brave souls still stuck in reticence 
to risk calm state of their healthy life style 
by tricking Satan with the clever guile 
concerning strict obedience to the law 
though we try to evade the lethal jaw. 

Desire to live beyond death of the soul 
drives fierce fanatics to attain this goal 
by grasping vainly at ethereal wind 
that misdirects the greedy king who sinned 
by smashing palace where First Ladies dwell 
so I throw snake runes in the dreamless well. 

False Roads Of Innocence

False Roads Of Innocence
© Surazeus
2026 05 30

Untwisting breakdown of the fragile hour 
we swallow stones of dream-exploding hopes, 
preserved as mushroom, bellows marginal 
to frantic wisdom shot from bowls of rage 
too fast against declensions, unpossessed 
by freedom-ordered words disguised as ghosts. 

Contained by complex articles of faith, 
too soon to craft new lecture on muckwork, 
my pulsing heart chews maps of ardent eggs 
smudged red with portents of forced arrogance, 
though we dance through Inferno of regret 
in threadbare souls extinct in cleansing rain. 

Concealed blade of my alabaster heart 
thirsts bleakly for resilient memories 
teeming thick with unwatched electric sparks 
from atoms smashed against my spasmic skull, 
still starving for bland obligations bought 
by trembling hands of futile arguments. 

Diminishing warmth of starkly blurred rain 
at scuttled promises that should retreat, 
discarded on false roads of innocence 
despite determination to endure, 
alerts my thoughts to understand strange words 
that disappear when I shout lies at Death. 

Against advantage purchased from blind death 
I preen with fractured confidence of stones 
to argue for hardships that mold our frames 
fierce as steel gears screwed in engine blocks 
fueled by dark possibilities still ignored 
by flash of sunlight cracking doors of fate. 

Pressed hot against vast world of spinning fear 
by radiant gravity of muddied clouds, 
I wonder if my tarmac-soldered brain 
could drink disoriented waves of hope 
fast enough to map lost trail of ghosts 
where angels slip and break their haughty wings. 

Young boy who bikes on dusty narrow road 
through small town, not on any Texas map, 
stops by college library after noon 
to write on yellow pad of paper spells 
contrived from plots of television shows 
about Sad Cowboy who explores the stars. 

Young girl who walks beside tree-mirrored pool 
through temple complex, in Cambodian hills, 
ascends on Garuda with rainbow wings 
to scatter flowers on the Texas plain 
where Phoebus gazes with astonished faith 
as Vasundhara takes his hand in hers. 

Aeolian Melodies Of Love

Aeolian Melodies Of Love
© Surazeus
2026 05 30

I hear sweet voice of Maya in soft wind 
that blows through trees lit by the gold noon sun, 
so I feel timeless spirit of Hermes 
ache to sing about Bride of Quietness 
who dances gracefully on uncracked urn 
forever in cool dales of Arcady. 

Wild ecstasy of haunting melodies 
still echo softly in my sensual ear 
from summer days of my adventurous youth 
when I attended rainbow gatherings 
in Colorado and New Mexico 
where no Arcadian priests attended rites. 

While riding cars on winding country roads 
across America, sea to shining sea, 
I see stolid cows grazing in fenced fields, 
undraped by garlands woven by young maids, 
where generations of grim pioneers 
have plowed thick fields that now serve as their graves. 

Yet Attic shape with marble lovers gleams 
still unphased in Museum of Dead Gods, 
so I now long to wield artistic brush 
and add John Keats and his love, Fanny Brawne, 
to lounge together on the Grecian Urn 
in cold pastoral of eternity. 

Now my heart aches two centuries from when 
John sank in Lethean waters of mute song 
attempting to fly with melodious plot 
beside light-winged Dryad of the trees 
that lead him to the blushful Hippocrene 
where I strum his lost Lyre of Mercury. 

Pale specter of his Apollonian soul 
has lingered by my side for forty years 
with lustrous eyes of mind-expanding sight 
that helps me translate weird Sibylline songs 
to praise the Queen-Moon of my fairy land 
whose sweet song radiates from my dreaming mind. 

Why easeful Death is now in love with me 
because she whispers in my sea-shell ear 
harmonious murmurs of the ceaseless waves 
that trick my heart with forlorn fairy haze 
to think I am both emperor and clown 
whose plaintive anthems fade unheard at dawn. 

Through global halls of gold in sublime state 
I strum the turtle Lyre of Mercury 
to sing with Homer and Apollo hymns 
about the human quest to understand 
essential nature of our universe 
that beams Aeolian melodies of love. 

Make Sarmatia Great Again

Make Sarmatia Great Again
© Surazeus
2026 05 30

When horses gallop on the windy steppes 
along the Borysthenes River flow, 
I embrace fierce heart of assertive hope 
till I feel wings of Icarus expand 
and lift my spirit to sun-glowing clouds 
so I can make Sarmatia great again. 

As star-eyed son of Oceanus and Tethys, 
who taught me how to tame the wind-winged horse 
with apple from Garden of Haballon 
where Hebela gives me fruit of her heart, 
I gaze entranced in her moon-golden eyes 
so I can make Sarmatia great again. 

Harnessing swift sky-dancer Pegasus 
to chariot with round wheels Helios designed, 
I race along wide river of fruit groves 
to hall of Apple Queen Amarnakea 
who welcomes me with cup of healing juice 
so I can make Sarmatia great again. 

Though I wander lost on vast treeless plain 
I climb mountain trail to her fruit grove 
when I hear sweet voice of Hebela ring, 
who takes my hand with smile of honest love 
and leads me home to lush Habaeleon 
so I can make Sarmatia great again. 

Ten thousand years ago in fruitful hills 
I left my sacred home Habaeleon 
with apples from Garden of Haballon 
and traveled west in Helian wagon train, 
planting apples from Scythia to Scotland 
so I can make Sarmatia great again. 

With golden apples of lost Haballon, 
as wise Apollon, son of Ilius, 
I tend vast orchards in lush Avalon, 
then strum the turtle lyre of Mercury 
and sing of Adam and Hebe in Eden 
so I can make Sarmatia great again. 

Far west across wild sea of Oceanus 
I sail from Avalon to lost Atlantis 
where I plant apples on lush river shores 
from Tsenacommacah to Oregon, 
where gentle Multnomah dances in rain, 
so I can make Sarmatia great again. 

From Sea of Zalpa where my soul was born 
when Queen of Kanesh, mother of my heart, 
commissioned me to map the world of dreams, 
I travel west with Fruit of Haballon 
to fill the world with Apples of the Sun 
so I can make Sarmatia great again. 

Entangled In Matrix Of Light

Entangled In Matrix Of Light
© Surazeus
2026 05 29

Though I am encased within shell of being, 
enwrapped in wings of thought I do not have, 
I float in all-inclusive Absolute 
through interconnected totality 
as brain entangled in matrix of light 
that sloshes thick in sea of molecules. 

I understand flexible principle 
when I grasp writhing serpent of my soul, 
and fix in thought concept of ardency 
with rigid definition of beamed words 
that binds elusive hope as stable truth 
which urges constant motion of strict change. 

Each rigid principle of truth I grasp 
generates contradiction of its state 
as mirror image of its ideal being, 
sublating opposite in sudden form 
that integrates their contrapuntal force 
in higher comprehensive unity. 

Subjective spirit of my private mind, 
preserved through individual mask of being, 
tracks growth of my personal consciousness 
expanding scope of bold intelligence 
fueled by emotion of assertive faith 
to record perceptions of my special brain. 

Objective spirit of my social class 
molds vibrant energy of our zeitgeist 
in social institutions of right laws 
that manifest cultural realities 
enhanced by abstract right of ownership 
through fruitful conscience of morality. 

Performance of my spiritual support, 
when I choose to create and not destroy, 
culminates in private ethical life 
where I actualize freedom of my will 
by building walls of Heaven to protect 
my wife and children so they savor life. 

Absolute spirit of my cosmic mind 
beams highest stage of growth where I achieve 
unified recognition of my Self 
when I express intuition through art, 
making imagery that represents life 
in religion to bind our hearts with tales. 

Events of world history humans perform 
evolve toward goal of mental liberty 
through exercise of justice for all souls 
to gain progress in consciousness of faith 
preserved in brave freedom we exercise 
to soar with hope above vast maze of myths. 

Angel Of Ever Time

Angel Of Ever Time
© Surazeus
2026 05 29

Did you meet your angel of Ever Time 
while wandering lost on Parc Rives de Seine? 
Bright light of ancient stars gleams in her eyes 
when she appears in flash from storm-black skies 
to cast dark shroud of gloom from my burned heart 
so I may read guide spells on my star chart. 

Do you hear your angel of Ever Time 
sing with clarion voice of the silver chime? 
When I transform into the white-furred bear 
to ascend the endless heavenly stair, 
hordes of devils swarm from cathedral hall 
to thwart me when I spell their minds in thrall. 

Do you see your angel of Ever Time 
emerge with demon wings from ocean brine? 
Trapped in museum of infinity 
by writhing words of fraught eternity, 
I dance with Mona Lisa on lake shore, 
two ghosts escaped from book of ancient lore. 

Will you kiss your angel of Ever Time 
when we free people from Plutonian mine? 
When Jesus harrows Hell with Sword of Truth 
with Dream Wand from Tree of Jesse and Ruth, 
he leads his people to the Promised Land 
where apple trees bloom from his tender hand. 

Would you know your angel of Ever Time 
if she appears without wings in her shrine? 
Struggling on raft of Medusa with Fate 
to extract honest love from bitter hate, 
we sail Sequana River past the moon 
while Orpheus plays Zarathian Tune. 

Can you feel your angel of Ever Time 
beam divine soul of God in fractal rhyme? 
Ultimate origin of conscious being 
spirals zillion galaxies on oval ring 
which channels Star Mind through my pulsing brain 
because I give it all away to gain. 

Shall we name our angel of Ever Time 
with persona mask young children design? 
After we stumble with diamonds of hope 
through frantic faith on misty mountain slope, 
we bury our parents in secret graves 
then search for the true apple tree that saves. 

Since I am your angel of Ever Time, 
will you take my hand and always be mine? 
I give you rainbow of the wind-winged horse 
to gather energy of the Heart Force 
so our love may heal wounds of brutal war 
to buy milk and bread at the grocery store. 

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.