Code of Cassandra

Code of Cassandra
© Surazeus
2026 08 23

To live well in this crazy world of lives 
I follow Code of Cassandra with care 
by writing riddles of satiric faith 
that guide my way in maze of clashing wills 
when I attempt to navigate with class 
opposing forces of partisan pride. 

I will never explain arcane details 
that compose Code of Cassandra with keys 
designed to unlock doors of potent facts 
essential to assemble from word gears 
financial engine of social exchange 
by which we journey to the Promised Land. 

Dynamic order of exotic scale 
now blueprints Code of Cassandra as guide 
for angels to construct our new world view 
providing mental tools of clever sight 
for every human mind to analyze 
state of the world with honest strategies. 

If we decide with hope to certify 
patterns in Code of Cassandra that ply 
melodious vibes of nominal respect, 
we should administer objective laws 
designed to monitor momentous growth 
as brave liaison to Queen Liberty. 

Since children dancing on the broken door 
intimate Code of Cassandra reveals 
logistic course of learning based on gems, 
we might orchestrate stoic privacy 
for every person who renders dream aid 
to faceless ghosts with severe innocence. 

Permission to transcend our fragile souls, 
allowed by Code of Cassandra with drive 
that motivates our ploy for excellence, 
alarms soul-controlling faction of fools 
who try to block our most lucrative deals 
when we found another franchise of faith. 

Module of lifetime mortgages entraps 
normalized Code of Cassandra with proof 
we now are simple singers on lit stage 
expressing hidden angst of human hearts 
who struggle to succeed against all odds 
since the system is rigged against false faith. 

Since vital flash of my spirit suggests 
schedule for Code of Cassandra to spool 
complex networks of interacting minds 
spread across the spectrum of divine types, 
I analyze intensity of hope 
to reprogram how my brain perceives you. 

Library Of The Laughing Book

Library Of The Laughing Book
© Surazeus
2026 08 23

To paint the color of soft river sand 
with simple sorrow of the happy girl 
who loves to dance among the apple trees, 
she asks Icarus with butterfly voice 
if he will teach her body how to fly, 
but his open mouth shimmers ocean full. 

Strange gleam of sunlight on the asphalt street 
reveals true nature of gossamer thoughts 
which veil her body on lawn of wet grass 
before library of the laughing book 
which records in writhing runes of the real 
sad tale of every soul who ever lived. 

Before Tara can escape the empty church, 
the vampire disguised as priest in black robe 
traps her spirit as the white butterfly 
who flutters desperately in the glass jar 
which Joshua taps when he visits at dusk 
when he searches for how she disappeared. 

Grinning at clever joke the vampire priest 
tells to hypnotize him with snake eyes, 
Joshua pulls hat low over his pale face 
and fillips river stone that cracks the jar 
just as the priest shrieks in terrible rage 
so she flies away as he dodges claws. 

Holding hands with firm compassion of trust, 
Tara and Joshua run over the field 
among cows of melancholy desire 
while the priest transforms into thirsty bat 
that chases them when clouds hide the bright moon 
till they hide in her cave on the lake shore. 

Clutching oak wand he carved into sharp point, 
Joshua gazes in eyes of Tara, green 
as thick moss on the river stone of faith, 
then lunges at dark shadow of despair 
to stab the priest straight through his rotten heart, 
who writhes and shrieks till his soul dissipates. 

Digging behind the church in morning light, 
dozens of grim villagers excavate 
unmarked graves of young girls who disappeared, 
kidnapped and abused by the smiling priest, 
whose rotten body on the grass decays, 
and mothers weep over skulls of their daughters. 

Time reveals color of soft river sand 
when rainbows shimmer over wind-blown woods 
so Tara calls her children to come in 
who hop and flap their arms like Icarus, 
then gather at the table of calm faith 
to eat sandwiches and drink apple juice. 

Court Of Mental Guilt

Court Of Mental Guilt
© Surazeus
2026 08 23

Not too sublime for engine of the car 
to allocate resources for rebirth 
when we, from gnarly trees emerge unscathed, 
prefer to play chess in the living room 
though planes drop bombs on houses somewhere near, 
for we are frail as flowers in mute fear. 

Concern for how far angels fall each day 
diverts attention of our daily prayers 
to fractured state of global politics 
which sparks new paradigms from social change 
when hordes of people clash in cyber war 
over whose world view describes the real world. 

No bells are heard in leafy neighborhoods 
from churches crowded on the summer day 
when devils wearing masks of holiness 
preach salvation only for those who pay 
tithes to the institution based on lies 
that we will resurrect from graves of muck. 

When Alice returns home from Wonderland 
she finds work at the Pegasus Cafe 
brewing coffee for officers and clowns 
who play their roles in court of mental guilt 
that keeps society functioning well 
in game of fame between lawyers and thieves. 

Too often children who chase butterflies 
get lost in lush hills of Arcadia 
that shimmers as the Otherworld of Faith 
behind facade of this real modern world 
where orcs in banks and elves in galleries 
compete for profit from the vampire god. 

As agent of Talamasca, I search 
dark alleyways for ghosts of ancient gods 
who walk this world in standard human form 
for we embody energies of myth 
composed of tropes that replay old soul wars, 
even when I buy beef sandwich and juice. 

Under old oak tree in the city park 
across the street from office where I work, 
I eat lunch with Bacchus and Icarus 
who ask if I want to participate 
in heist of treasure from museum hall 
where masks of gods hang on the blood-smeared wall. 

I just want to map history of mankind 
in quiet library where screaming ghosts 
attempt to set distorted records straight 
till words in books bleed into honey bees 
that swarm the crowded streets of everywhere 
with sublime hum of engine in the car. 

Bend Bows Of Justice

Bend Bows Of Justice
© Surazeus
2026 08 22

Stories from history books bleed in my eyes 
so I ask the moon raven to hire spies 
trained in the art of painting psychic masks 
with features of demons trapped in wine casks 
who want to teach in the college of fools 
how to adjust engines with mental tools. 

When I visit ancient city of spires, 
where angels twist books into rubber tires, 
Persephone comes from the underworld 
to show me where river dragons lie curled 
as if to fertilize our minds with dreams 
about how we better survive in teams. 

With each satiric joke of solemn truth, 
carved on temple walls by messiah sleuth, 
my tricks dismantle your poetic code 
which helps us navigate the open road 
to understand pain of love in divorce 
though we stick strictly to the moral course. 

Haloed by immense glow of timeless hope 
where she wanders on the time-shifting slope, 
her shadow wavers on the mountain ridge 
as she directs construction of the bridge 
that links our souls over abyss of love 
till angels descend from Heaven above. 

When Rama and Odysseus first meet 
on cliffs of Moher to fight the space fleet, 
they bend bows of justice with hearts of faith 
to shoot words of wisdom at the star wraith 
which liberates Sita and Penelope 
who prepare the fast with their recipe. 

Through taste of copper, bitter in my mouth, 
when ghosts of sorrow haunt homes of the south, 
I climb the highest mountain on this globe, 
dressed only in white hermit-mission robe, 
to seek salvation from ethereal breath 
so I accept finality of death. 

In vast cavern near Sagarmatha peak 
I find the ancient truth my fathers seek 
that skull of every man who reigned as king, 
stored in glass palace where blind angels sing 
sits silent on extensive rows of shelves, 
polished and labeled by professor elves. 

I try to map flow of human events 
through policies of kings and presidents, 
but history was built by the commoner, 
from the farmer to the dream carpenter, 
and by women who cook meals everyday 
while their children in the fruit garden play. 

Faceless Ghosts Of Vanity

Faceless Ghosts Of Vanity
© Surazeus
2026 08 22

With elegant grace of artistic faith 
I stroll awed along labyrinthine streets 
over sculptured bridge of the timeless river 
in majestic city of golden light 
where sun-bleached marble temples crown high hills 
as silent sentinels of grand events. 

On time-worn cobblestones of urgent care, 
where centuries of footsteps echo soft, 
I wander slow past weathered stone facades 
encrusted with dust of eras long past, 
to explore crumbling palaces of pride 
where spirits of antiquity watch me. 

Beneath palimpsest of history I read 
tales of many generations concealed 
in monumental plays of fortitude, 
performed by long-forgotten dynasties 
in chronicles of sorrow etched in stone 
by endless wind of change that knows my name. 

Anchored in bedrock of brave principles 
on foundation fused in soil of desire, 
this sprawling palace of some tyrant king 
arrests the natural landscape with contempt, 
now heavy with unspeakable despair 
that still asserts authority of death. 

Despite bombastic arrogance of time 
that crushes dynasties of kings to dust, 
I stroll with ostentatious obviousness 
that my genetic coils of spirit grief 
unravel from flesh of those royal fools 
who crowned themselves great rulers over fate. 

Awake this prayerless hour of vivid hope 
in open-air archive of human triumph, 
that pulses still beneath ruins of fate, 
I explore grand monument of endurance, 
that looms proud against erosion of time, 
at veil worn thin between me and the past. 

These standard feelings of the long-gone past, 
that shimmers in sunrays on feet-worn streets, 
stir in hearts of every human being 
who visits ancient cities of the world, 
so I must laugh that my heart feels them too, 
though I wear mask of innocent respect. 

Trapped by nostalgia for time-unspooled past, 
I photograph with eye-phone of my heart 
myself before grand monuments to pride 
where men who played god on stage of this city 
are now but faceless ghosts of vanity 
whose selfish commands whisper in the breeze. 

Safe Environment Of Hope

Safe Environment Of Hope
© Surazeus
2026 08 22

My frail heart swells with pungent gratitude, 
derived from experience of old age, 
that I have been able, with sturdy faith, 
to maintain safe environment of hope 
for my children to thrive through confidence, 
brave in haven of my protective tomb. 

Productive chaos stirring urban scenes 
secures deep source of energetic growth 
for people joined in contract of concern 
to thrive through dynamic communities 
preserving spirit of brave pioneers 
rooted in soil by hands of founding pride. 

Assertion of pure motive to create 
enough food for every soul to consume 
stirs sublime respect in all open hearts 
for strong beauty of cooperative work 
that binds immigrating strangers of fate 
in prosperous communes through liberty. 

Careful attention of our aching hearts 
conjures from soil of humble nothingness 
flourishing success of fertile desire 
that blooms ripe from desolate afternoons 
as temporary stay against mute death 
that always haunts celebrations of life. 

Sweet music of encoding instruments 
rings brightly in narrow streets of regret 
through durable discipline we direct 
to increase enrollment of carefree joy 
when spark of exotic passion expends 
secret equity of luxurious play. 

Lured by our host of mechanical mirth, 
we follow Bacchus and his prancing pard 
through winding streets of tragic loyalty, 
despite portable ordinance of greed, 
in frantic game exchanging oxygen 
based on scholarship of romantic sport. 

Though we cavort on fluid stage of fate 
to exercise free will of hard-won choice, 
awake on rugged coast of nonchalance, 
we must divorce our jagged hearts of hope 
from heart-entrapping game of synergy 
since rocky cliffs of gray seas understand. 

Alone in meadow of the weeping tree, 
I gather blackberries with trembling hands, 
then sit beneath the willow tree with swans 
and feast on sweet catastrophe of faith 
that children of my tangled genes will thrive 
long after I disappear in mute wind. 

Alone Tree Of Fate

Alone Tree Of Fate
© Surazeus
2026 08 22

No black rain is falling on this bright day 
while I walk to the Alone Tree of fate 
so I can translate prophecies of change 
sung by the hissing wind of emptiness 
that batters melancholy homes of hope 
where people eat at the table of faith. 

Though spiders in the garden of lost souls 
search for my heart in shadow of the clock, 
the shepherd who finds body of his wife 
decayed in bushes by the gushing stream 
breaks the silence of God with wordless curse 
that transforms his bones into twisted steel. 

When he wanders in the pasture with cows, 
the shepherd who programs computer games 
hears crystal angels singing in tall trees, 
so he gathers trash of their broken wings 
in plastic bags he piles beside the road 
till dust of long-dead stars encrust his eyes. 

Sharp shots of guns echo in autumn woods 
where angels run in trees of bloody bones 
so ravens shriek from fragments of their mouths 
in wild laments of shattered innocence 
with prayers to clouds inhabited by gods 
who laugh with joy at causing men to fight. 

Trapped in the solitary hour of death, 
the shepherd with gun of religious pride 
considers wetness of tall hungry grass 
when Bacchus dances on his empty grave 
with sober clarity of evening hymns 
that eyeless devils sing with pious faith. 

He kneels and touches blueness of the stream 
with anguish at the desolate secrecy 
preserved in neatness of the garden path 
where toads of panic meditate all night 
against dire quietness of his cold breath 
so he clamps ears against rustle of leaves. 

Bright destitution of his childhood days 
returns with brittle innocence of love 
at that dark hour when eyes of seers expand 
with muffled clang of bells in empty church 
where angels wear masks of children we name 
before they sink in muck of holy war. 

Trapped in their mournful pilgrimage to Hell, 
the people of the nation blessed by God 
lie down together on the shattered plain 
and stare at nothingness of glowing screens 
that flash elusive visions of world peace 
till we become the gods we idolize. 

We Build Another Troy

We Build Another Troy
© Surazeus
2026 08 21

From Troy our urgent mission to survive 
drives our wheeled train of homeless refugees 
to follow Venus sailing her moon boat 
across abyss of hope to colonize 
pristine gardens where ghost of Eden gleams 
from dire emergency of tolling bells. 

Through telescope of innocent respect 
we search for secret code in random stars 
that map our noble purpose with faint flash 
assembled in grand puzzle of desire 
to measure slow sequential flow of time 
beyond intense unraveling of fate. 

Indifferent audience of angels laughs 
at cosmic foibles noble heroes play 
while sanctioned by brave eagles of world war 
who lead parades of our triumphant loss 
against dark shadows in reflected glass 
of faceless enemies we fight each day. 

Of my first disobedience against pride, 
and fruit of my achievements soured by guilt, 
I sing with harp of David in my hands 
while lost in yellow woods of urgent faith 
where I pause at cracked tomb of Oedipus 
to ponder failure of our social dream. 

Wise oracle of concupiscent grace 
expresses stoic principles of calm 
with incandescent dance of mental vibes 
at trick of fame by tarot cards dealt lies 
exposing counterfeit creeds angels sell 
through prank of toxic masculinity. 

When kingdom-killing prophet of the laugh 
reveals sly bluff the Blindman conjugates, 
we strive to fathom absolute expanse 
of spaceless straightness tangled by fake words 
that throws our bodies on light curve of change 
so we hold hands from gates of paradise. 

Each time grand towers of bright Ilium 
are burned by agents of cruel tyranny, 
we build another Troy with bleeding hands 
to manage empire of corporate stores 
that binds our paths through corridors of time 
till we assemble in one church of wealth. 

When mantra-minded flower child of fate 
arrives from Underworld of bitter truth 
to fix machinery of the star-wound soul, 
contrived as psychic dynamo of faith, 
I publish odes of sorrow on the wall 
so ghosts of heroes hide in wordless books. 

Bitter Prayers Of Fantasies

Bitter Prayers Of Fantasies
© Surazeus
2026 08 21

After turning key of uncertainty 
I ask the honey bees of innocence 
to find home burned by soldiers of despair 
who barricade their hearts with polished stones 
fractured from idols of their social gods 
who feed on bitter prayers of fantasies. 

There is no substance in our enmities 
we gather to replace faint hopes of love, 
yet we ask honey bees of arrogance 
to build their hives of passion-pilfered wealth 
in home now empty of our family ghosts 
whose hearts lead them to wander windy hills. 

In ninth Troy of America we dwell, 
secure in tower where Rapunzel sings, 
whose anguish catches it afire this hour, 
though we continue with our daily lives 
through certain faith that noble minds prevail 
though faceless Helen walks the Earth again. 

Dark weeds grow from pavestones of social power 
where Brigid herds sheep on the White House lawn, 
and sings enchanting prophecies of doom 
while I play broken lyre of Mercury, 
yet she decides to give out fish and bread 
to people homeless from social collapse. 

No dream of paradise could paralyze 
our good intentions for democracy 
in noble mission to replace all kings 
with honest leaders whom people elect 
because they hear with brave ears of insight 
voices of the dead explain how to live. 

Heart riddled with weird light of star-blind gods, 
I hurl fierce curse of justice at the sky 
where no immense mind of the absolute 
ensures equality for every soul, 
so with eye of my brain in turbulence 
I seek moon-stark hill of electric skulls. 

Shocked by insistence of angelic wings 
that I transcend this fragile flame of flesh, 
I channel bitter prayers of fantasies 
through jubilant expressions of respect 
for brave endurance of our wounded hearts 
to face down the silver-helmed Seraphim. 

Indifferent to our solitude in time, 
the star-eyed prophet of the misty isle 
refuses to proclaim in busy streets 
crimes of the powerful who still exploit 
our bodies for profits they confiscate 
though we pray to idol of God for help. 

Empire Of Jocular Play

Empire Of Jocular Play
© Surazeus
2026 08 21

If we attempt to stop the clocks of change, 
and tangle voices in telephone lines, 
to silence celebration at dire hour 
the greedy tyrant tumbles from his throne, 
despair for life will burst from wounded hearts 
and crack the sky with fireworks of new joy. 

Contours of anguish wrapping hearts with hope 
divulge more passion than we care to show 
when we assemble on mist-flurried shore 
with plan to conjure from abysmal gloom 
new demon of despair to haunt our land 
and shadow our great nation with blind faith. 

Too many puerile farmers and bank clerks 
attempt to plaster laws across the sky 
more beautiful than carnage of world war 
when prophets wander lost in busy streets 
to find their enemy is almost dead, 
white-faced as angels they flee from in dreams. 

Yet we all pause from revelry at dawn 
to hear the starry-eye soprano sing 
heart-wrenching hymn of tragic innocence 
while gleam of Sirius, her guiding star, 
reveals the baltering torrent of our tears 
though we dance with unsteady ardency. 

Strange victory shout of cardiac respect 
may act as uncommercial catalyst 
for bold uprising of communal clans 
against incompetence of legal greed, 
yet we desert cathedrals of contempt 
to play exotic roles in public squares. 

My brain may now be vacant of old creeds, 
erased by brave endurance of concern 
in frantic storms of social dominance, 
but I shall rise from muck of sublime truth 
to rebuild empire of jocular play 
despite indulgence on the peccant stage. 

My wounded heart expands beyond its ken 
when Sibyl sings from golden cage of truth 
calm tablet-chat of arcane prophecies, 
so I translate strict formulas for wealth 
from purling laughter of clear mountain streams 
which knits immigrants in new freedom tribe. 

Since we will dwell in Land of Unconcern, 
brave bodies crushed by supple gears of change, 
fake prayers revive our souls of poisoned faith 
with mute inoculants, by angels brewed 
with brazen laughter for the shock effect 
that teaches us to value what is real. 

Sacrifice For Moral Code

Sacrifice For Moral Code
© Surazeus
2026 08 20

Because the gift of prophecy demands 
sacrifice of treasure we value most, 
I replicate with pristine character 
mask of my mundane personality 
so I become wise scapegoat for the world 
that guides attention of creative care. 

To die as sacrifice for moral code, 
contrived to manage gestures of concern 
that channels guilt of selfish procurement, 
I play role of fate-wounded sufferer 
who struggles bravely calm to overcome 
mental challenges through resilience. 

Heap all your bitter sorrows on my head 
when you expose my culpability 
presenting efforts to master deep flaws 
through bright deception you accepted well 
as proof that fragile humans with bold hearts 
may transcend limitations of our souls. 

Through my fantastic tale of daring feats, 
which I present as honest narrative 
of hard-won triumph over weaknesses, 
you offer rewards for accomplishments 
that prove all people willing to work hard 
have strength to bolster status of their fate. 

Yet heights achieved through too aggressive game 
thrust fragile sense of victory beyond base 
adjusted for safe balance of the heart, 
therefore the higher we rise through hard work 
the farther from earned merits we may fall 
and crash so hard we shatter wordlessly. 

Sharp shards of my integral sense of self, 
scattered far across fraught landscape of pride, 
fail to hope-activate magnetic coherence 
for vital principles of framed insight 
to reassemble mask of my true self 
so I become sly thief you think I am. 

Alone in gloom of my besieged framework, 
without truth-binding creed that hard work pays 
social dividends of accepted prize, 
I question nature of essential faith 
composing public person I perform 
outside containment of my stale success. 

Failure to focus fractured facts of fate 
within well-ordered system of respect 
causes my soul disperse in mocking wind 
so I sink deep into bottomless abyss 
and vanish from theater of false pride 
in sacrifice that prophesies your doom. 

Sublimity Of Self

Sublimity Of Self
© Surazeus
2026 08 20

Should time maintain vibrational concern 
for fragile bodies of our transient souls, 
I might find courage to endure sharp pain 
of this excessive hour in swirling tides 
that toss my spirit on assertive faith 
with hollow laughter of wind on shore rocks. 

Ten thousand ghosts of mocking innocence 
attack my heart with bloody beaks of fear 
that drives me to run clumsily lame-quick 
against elusive obstacles time hurls 
to hide in shuddered shadow of despair 
at throbbing pain of crippled arrogance. 

Enclosed in tightened narrowness of hope 
that crushes me to shivers of weak pride, 
I wait for ghosts of laughter to disperse, 
bored with their hunt to tear my soul apart, 
then hold my tattered sense of self in hands 
that tremble to perceive my wounded heart. 

I know death will erase me from this world 
and leave no trace of me in wordless wind 
except faint scent of terror in foul sweat 
that oozes slick from naked pores of faith 
which makes me worry my liquidized soul 
drains as tears to empty me of myself. 

Grim-hungry rocks at mouth of my small cave 
drip thirsty to devour my pungent flesh 
so I escape harsh jaws of eyeless death 
and stumble in cold evening gloom of faith 
to find safe tree where fruit of ardent joy 
supplies sweet energy of urgent hope. 

With cautious steps of careful attitude 
I slowly creep across broad field of rocks, 
that jab my naked feet with leering lust, 
toward slender gleam of light on distant ridge 
that lures me to some terrible regret 
through cold Plutonian fog of bitter angst. 

Alone in vastness of our spinning globe, 
I linger mute beneath huge jagged stone, 
and watch immensity of twinkling stars 
stream white as milk in gushing arc of light 
across enormous nothingness of desire 
so I forget sharp anguish of my pain. 

I see small purple mushroom with long hood 
stuck tight to jagged stone of timeless hope 
so I consume its slimy fruit of faith 
that swells small scope of my tear-stained eyes huge 
through stark obsession for ecstatic love 
till I become sublimity of self. 

How To Thrive With Love

How To Thrive With Love
© Surazeus
2026 08 20

Thoughts tumble over rough cliff of my mind 
to form mirror mask of shimmering calm 
that veils turmoil of feelings in my heart 
so you see placid face you want to see 
concealing soul that swirls with clarity 
while I plot how to advance my career. 

No Christ nor Arthur star in my life play 
as grand exemplars for how to behave, 
so I accept Odyssean flaws with grace 
that drive my soul against Neptunian pride 
on zealous quest to find my secret home 
that strands me on your grim Plutonian shore. 

You are my bright-eyed siren on sharp rocks 
whose heart-enchanting song of mute desire 
reveals how I lost what I most adore 
while urging me to soldier on with hope 
around obstacles of indifferent fate 
since you are beacon of my journey home. 

Frail ship of my enduring heart maintains 
integral structure of my fractured mind, 
so I stay balanced as I surf wild waves 
of constant change in fortunate progress, 
star-guided toward weird paradise I built 
as haven for your soul till I return. 

Bombs dropped from planes that laughing angels fly 
may deconstruct framework of our world view 
based on security of our hearth home, 
but kingdom of our faith consists of code 
programmed to bind our hearts with marriage vows 
as shield against invaders of our land. 

Hearts bound by loyalty of trusting love, 
we stand secure in knowledge of our faith 
that gives us strength of honest arrogance 
to endure relentless attacks of dream thieves 
so we preserve pale of our nation-state 
till haughty angels fall from flaming clouds. 

You are Calypso and Penelope 
combined in one courageous soul of hope, 
so I commission me with solemn oath 
to guard your life against oppressive greed 
of men who view your life as profit tool, 
for you are person I respect with love. 

Long after angry soldiers with cruel guns, 
sent by exploiters hiding in tall towers, 
retreat from field of battle we endure, 
we rebuild haven of our humble hearth, 
then grow again through our creative hands 
by teaching children how to thrive with love. 

Intense Desire To Live

Intense Desire To Live
© Surazeus
2026 08 19

I feel the ocean seething in my brain 
when I somersault inside the black hole 
that pulses with intense desire to live 
to wake up bound inside this coil of flesh 
that urges me to compete for fresh fruit 
so I generate life before I die. 

I feel vast emptiness of everything 
swell huge through singularity 
in still point at the center of all light 
when galaxies flare forth from flash of thought 
then spiral into strands of clicking genes 
that mold bipedal gods with grasping hands. 

I feel urge to transcend my frame of thought 
so I run laughing on long wooden dock, 
then leap high into heaven of gold clouds 
on time-rewinding wings of Icarus, 
but fate pulls me back down to solid state 
where I laugh wildly on my back in grass. 

I feel expanding scope of consciousness 
envelop Earth with gleam of mental code 
so I dream every soul who ever lives 
as universal mind of mindless self 
who sings in one harmonious melody 
hearts of eight billion separate human beings. 

Suryathi, bright-eyed Goddess of the Sun, 
ascends from gleaming fields of blooming rice 
to fly on bold Apsara wings of faith 
above vast complex of tall tower spires 
and scatters coins of gold on villages 
where farmers bless her generosity. 

Gold river dragon rises from clear stream, 
eyes gleaming bright as diamonds of star truth, 
scales writhing lithe as flames of holy thought, 
and sings uncanny spell of heart insight 
that sparks strange vision of world prophecy 
which I sing as I stroll long road of light. 

Queen Mary steps from wood ship of desire 
and strides wet stones in swirling fog of fear 
to claim with faith the jeweled crown of thorns 
she wears as wise Minerva born on Earth, 
then tells me with soft voice of ocean waves 
that I will build new kingdom of free will. 

Since I am temporary node of thought 
that vibrates spirit of genetic code 
as deathless angel in my mortal shell, 
I order hamburger with tater tots 
and eat lunch at bench in the river park, 
then play guitar and sing of human hope. 

Delusions Of Global Conquest

Delusions Of Global Conquest
© Surazeus
2026 08 19

If I should find myself under attack 
by gangs of thieves hostile to my free will, 
I may hope Aphrodite would appear 
to whisk me away in cloud of concern, 
like she sheltered Paris from Menelaus, 
because my heart is full of love for life. 

I pray to Goddess of Beauty and Love 
to veil my fragile soul of naive hope 
from social predators, armed with state laws, 
who try to scam my innocent respect 
with lucrative return on vested funds, 
and bear me to safe haven in her heart. 

Were clever Eris, Trickster of Desire, 
to toss Apple of Chaos at my feet, 
so Goddesses of Wisdom, Love, and Power, 
were to tempt me with treasures of their hearts, 
I like to think my mind would analyze 
best scene that fosters spiritual success. 

While I decide which path I want to take 
that guides me to domestic quietude, 
I must descend to Underworld of dreams 
to ask Achilles and Odysseus 
which goddess I should choose to risk my fate, 
whose fortunes present results of Free Will. 

Perhaps I may find Dante by the pool, 
where Narcissus listens to Echo sing, 
so he will guide me to the Promised Land 
in lush Edenic vales of Idaho 
where I travel on the Oregon Trail 
to escape slaughter of religious wars. 

With spirit of Adam I tend fruit trees 
to fight deceptive serpent with gold eyes, 
inspired by Jesus son of Jupiter, 
because I choose to consume Fruit of Faith 
that opens my Third Eye of Star Insight 
to help me perceive essence of all things. 

With courage of brave Arthur of the Stone, 
descendent of Jehovian Fisher King, 
and Marya Magdalena, Mermaid Queen, 
I bear the bloody cross of holy war 
to build ten thousand towers of white stone, 
constructing Kingdom of Heaven on Earth. 

All these delusions of global conquest, 
that drove my ancestors two thousand years 
to colonize every nation on Earth, 
now dissipate in wordless glow of dawn, 
so I drink from the Holy Grail of Truth 
in my self-made role as Messiah Sleuth. 

Star Eyes Of My Night

Star Eyes Of My Night
© Surazeus
2026 08 19

Because she is the star eyes of my night, 
beaming visions of vain hope from her heart, 
I search with hope for algorithmic ways 
to redesign our social narrative 
so we admire perceptive qualities 
of common people struggling to survive. 

The plumber adjusts invisible pipes 
to channel water from the River Styx 
through sink faucet in kitchen of concern 
so I can cook spaghetti on the stove 
with tomato sauce and parmesan cheese 
when we drink wine and ignore falling bombs. 

The workers who repair our broken homes 
with frames of wood and nets of copper wires 
work with their hands to reshape forms of hope 
against oppressive tyranny of words 
stacked by large language models of pride 
so we drive our cars to the grocery store. 

The mechanic tweaks engine of my car 
so gas in combustion chamber explodes 
to power spin the piston engine sparks 
in twirling cycle of aggressive force 
so we zoom fast across map-measured space 
in time machine of legalized control. 

The farmer plows soil with hard dragon bone 
and sows sharp teeth in furrows of mute verse 
so angels and devils both spring with hope 
from field of dreams to colonize the world 
and build vast maze of streets with numbered doors 
where idols of dead gods direct our lives. 

The driver maneuvers delivery truck 
on web of highways sea to shining sea, 
porting raw materials to factories, 
providing merchandise to shopping stores, 
and stocking homes with valuable assets 
where we dwell in domestic quietude. 

The baker gathers wheat that Ceres grows 
to grind grains into flour of secret code 
they program into loaves of fresh-baked bread 
that we eat with fried fish and tartar sauce 
when Jesus preaches Sermon on the Mount 
about caring for homeless immigrants. 

I dream I meet Jesus on signless road 
alive as you and me with pulsing heart, 
so I ask if he will return again soon, 
but he shows how his spirit incarnates 
in leaders who nurture each human being 
through state that gives all freedom to live well. 

How Psychic Angels Talk

How Psychic Angels Talk
© Surazeus
2026 08 18

The peaceful loneliness of the sidewalk, 
where I wander between asphalt and grass, 
reveals to me how psychic angels talk 
when they calculate our terrestrial mass, 
so I visit Emily in her yard 
where she grins and deals the Magician card. 

Strange blueness of the midafternoon sky, 
that glows behind web of telephone lines, 
explains futility for asking why 
death occurs in this world no God designs, 
since Jesus tells me no one is up there, 
so we must show the living that we care. 

Grim grayness of the town-connecting street, 
that tricks me to go anywhere I want, 
extracts despair from my heart with each beat 
which powers angel wings I dare to flaunt, 
but I cannot fly, so I journey on, 
strumming guitar as the national pawn. 

Indifferent angst of sunrays in glass doors, 
exposing vanity of daily work, 
tricks me to find salvation in bookstores 
where prophets without holy books still lurk, 
but when I visit his still-empty tomb 
Zeus tries to sell me riddles that spell doom. 

Since Jesus has been dead two thousand years 
our personal relationship is stalled, 
so his granddaughter cleans the world with tears 
when she appoints me as her castle skald 
to sing of Mermaid and her Holy Grail 
who dwells in haven of the mountain vale. 

Proud dignity of the telephone pole 
provides new framework for our old world view 
that every human has appointed role 
to kill each other over what is true, 
so I must deconstruct class privilege 
when I rebuild United Nations bridge. 

Locked doors of houses in suburban zones 
discuss catastrophe of being alive, 
so I sell Bibles forged from dragon bones 
to save family photos on the hard drive 
as puzzle pieces in tale of our state 
fractured in church gangs by greed-driven hate. 

Strange quietness of wind on the bare hill 
drives me to stack stones in heavenly wall 
by adjusting duty based on free will 
while I sell apples in the market stall, 
till Emily steps from carriage of faith 
and asks if I have seen the Cosmic Wraith. 

Psychic Rivers Of Regret

Psychic Rivers Of Regret
© Surazeus
2026 08 18

Soft vibration of crystal words reforms 
how human brains perceive the Face of God 
that gleams from golden clouds of arrogance 
to mutate how we talk about our souls 
as light that glows from fragile shell of glass 
which blinks out when the brain ceases to dream. 

If angels dare to explain how the brain 
could process sentences of fractured truth, 
we humans might remember why we hope 
to share conversations about rebirth 
in humming mountains of social thoughts 
when we meet ourselves in the spectral zone. 

I hear ephemeral voice of weird faith 
when I float high on invisible wings 
to teach the faceless ghosts of everywhere 
strange secret of conceptual innocence 
inherent in fake law of gravity 
that might invalidate my divine creed. 

Since no one speaks about the fall of stones 
which float on psychic rivers of regret, 
we gaze in eyes of people starved by fear, 
trapped in the prison camp of global faith, 
who sell each other empty books of tales 
which they burn to keep warm on winter nights. 

Foreclosed quality of inhuman speech, 
concerned with quality of suffering, 
pronounces new law of humble rapport 
between exploiters and victims of fraud 
who argue semantics in the locked church 
to deconstruct confession bombs of truth. 

If we use language to communicate 
hunger for substantial faith in the known, 
we might confuse young children without keys 
who prove flowers and glaciers design 
how we give and take in contests of love 
for return on investment despite death. 

Haunted by attentive ghosts of lakes, 
shot by angel of spiritual rewards 
who deems them unfit to work in food stores, 
I gamble for salvation with word-luck, 
heart tangled in language matrix of truth, 
when I overhear words of flightless souls. 

Awake with breath-turn of the mountain vale, 
I measure atom-wind of spiral waves 
to sense pure essence of the conscious brain 
which translates seething tides of wordless hope 
to jumbled logic of cathedral hymns 
which humans sing to pretend no one dies. 

Ideal God Of Joy

Ideal God Of Joy
© Surazeus
2026 08 17

Through time-expanding laughter of my heart 
I redesign perspective of my brain 
to frame traumatic events of despair 
as opportunities to learn and grow 
while I strive with encouragement of faith 
to transcend limitations of the self. 

Bright light of this brave proverb blinds my eyes 
so I cannot perceive progressive way 
to maintain balance over shifting sands, 
so I shade straight attention of my heart 
with cautious code that helps me better see 
road I need to take through shadow of fear. 

I ponder weirdness of reverse effect 
that proves through success of daily routines 
how this much more cynical attitude, 
that death will dismember my fragile soul, 
guides my way around brutish obstacles 
better than faith in providence of God. 

What does not kill me tends to injure me 
instead of filling me with noble strength, 
yet cautious attention to dangerous threats 
provides sharp wit to analyze landscape 
cluttered with soul-consuming traps of pain, 
so I can navigate to safer ground. 

This principle, that fear increases sight 
so grim despair beams soul-liberating light 
as guiding star that helps me evade death, 
seems to contradict creed of piety 
that commands I attend events with faith 
in some faceless God that glows in the sky. 

All my ancestors once lived long enough 
through cautious attention to reality 
to generate new life before they died, 
so sharp-eyed vigilance of prudent care, 
which they programmed into my psychic genes, 
still dictates how I decide to proceed. 

Though techniques of survival we accrue 
through countless generations of rebirth 
provide complex algorithms of insight, 
our progress to transcend frail human state 
seems to retard evolutionary growth 
so few attain divine enlightenment. 

I need no name or complex tale of growth 
depicting process of cause and effect 
for me to moralize in mental code 
spirit-expanding scope of consciousness 
enhancing how my mind perceives this world 
as I grow into ideal God of Joy. 

Become Flowers In Rain

Become Flowers In Rain
© Surazeus
2026 08 17

Before marble tomb of some long-dead god, 
whose descendants crowned themselves kings of hope, 
I listen to wordless voice of the wind 
tell me about strange vanity of men 
who manage other men to do their will 
till they die and become flowers in rain. 

I find ten thousand tombs of long-dead gods 
scattered across new temporary states 
where living gods rule from high offices 
concerned about survival this fraught hour 
while thousands strive to gain that seat of power 
though butterflies explain wisdom of love. 

Should Time reallocate energy sparks 
enough for me to play on stage of fate 
wise god who manages affairs of state, 
I will accept with grace her calm command 
to plan program that funds creative work 
which nurtures talents of committed souls. 

Should I succeed in my inspiring plot 
to implement social program for scheme 
that provides urge of hope for every soul, 
people may mold metal in my shape 
to capture in changeless idol of hope 
bold spirit of my vision for their lives. 

Yet I prefer to play my private role 
as plain artificial world generator 
when I design with sentences and shapes 
tales that map complete history of mankind 
on time-animated atlas of hope 
so we analyze our progress so far. 

When I was young some thirty years ago 
I exited maze of the social grid 
and traveled east on the Oregon Trail, 
where my ancestors in wagons went west, 
to find my homeland that does not exist, 
but dance till I become flowers in rain. 

Though empires rise and fall in tides of change, 
which elevates some mortal man as god 
till they dissolve into stories in books, 
I keep on walking down the signless road 
to map our journey till the sun explodes 
and we become atomic ghosts of light. 

She asks me if I know how I should feel, 
so I write verses of riddles in sand 
to record dream of my epiphany 
that programs how my brain perceives the world 
till waves of time wipe all my words away 
and wind sings on beach of eternity.