Emerald Tablet Of Faith

Emerald Tablet Of Faith
© Surazeus
2026 10 26

Bright spark of truth you long to clearly see 
evades attentive focus of your mind 
by slipping through containing words of fact 
to slither stealthily straight past your face 
in flashing sponge computer brain of god 
who sings salvation of the humming toad. 

Earnest commitment to study the sea 
inspires your hungry heart to understand 
brutal ghosts of honesty books depict 
as noble heroes corrupted by vice 
for greed to live beyond death as robot 
entranced by drunk revelry of the goat. 

Justice you fight to achieve every day 
wanders blind in waste land of silent prayer 
with plan to steal Emerald Tablet of Faith 
on which is written riddles of your fate 
in writhing runes that burn your staring eyes 
as you evolve beyond the fake-god phase. 

Reluctant to pursue the Golden Way, 
you linger in tower room with cracked mirror 
where Rapunzel gave birth to the God Wraith, 
and ponder what drives wounded souls to hate 
oligarchs who rule the world with dream spies 
while you wander lost in religious maze. 

Trembling in harsh cold of state negligence 
outside castle door where the elite squad 
gather to praise each other for their poems, 
you snarl with bitterness they left you out 
instead of forming new exclusive club 
for your own gang of dolls who love your work. 

Winning grand awards without precedence, 
you proudly proclaim you are not the fraud 
who howls with angst that the circus clown roams 
endless streets of gold to earn social clout 
as leader of three men in the wealth tub 
who sail seven seas where mad dolphins lurk. 

Startled by sudden undoing of laws 
that governed good behavior in our land, 
you try to vote for Minerva the Wise 
who would arrest Midas with his small hands 
for treason against decency and truth, 
but Bacchus steals the crown of thorns Christ wore. 

Measuring effects of the primal cause 
by which wild swerving atoms form star band, 
you fail to parse his endless stream of lies 
entangling logical concerns with brands 
of wealth decoded by messiah sleuth 
who leads wounded angels on the sea shore. 

Weird Voice Of The Dead

Weird Voice Of The Dead
© Surazeus
2026 10 26

I want to be normal, like everyone 
else who walks around like they know the game, 
but I would rather perform Belshazzar, 
slouched securely on unearned throne of fame, 
than Apollo prancing around on stage 
as if I speak with Weird Voice of the Dead. 

Tripped up by hungry beauty of the heart, 
that drives me with ambition to compete 
against glamorous stars everyone adores, 
I sing heart-aching verse fate will delete 
to arrest downward spiral of despair, 
then stumble gracefully in silent rain. 

Cruel devil of Pride haunts my halting steps 
with urgent passion to express in spells 
weird visions flashing in vault of my brain, 
which I find writhing in moon-vortex wells, 
so I tear off my performative mask 
to expose raw horror of being alive. 

Obsessed with hoping people will perceive 
ghost of my being as spirit of insight 
equal to great seers, whose visions provide 
guidance for nations to thrive in the light, 
I flee town square crowded with frightened mob 
who seeks salvation from prophet of hate. 

Preferring to play the prophet of love, 
I hide in wilderness cave of despair, 
eyes blinded by illusions of harsh truth, 
and seek in shadows of my demon lair 
puzzles I need to construct new world view 
that frames events with values we perform. 

I see all objects of material form 
are structures of atoms that grow from cause 
inherent in seed of their origin, 
so I devise strict set of moral laws 
that we do what we will, if we harm none, 
when we construct rather than destruct things. 

When I descend from mountain of Fire Ghost, 
bearing emerald tablets carved with Thought Code 
that describes physical nature of life, 
I find mankind worshipping the Gold Toad, 
so I shoot arrow of Apollo straight 
when I sing spells with Weird Voice of the Dead. 

Struggling to escape egg of the blind horse, 
I grasp the broken lyre of Mercury that sticks 
bent from trunk of the ancient rotten tree, 
then climb headless idol of the World God 
to stand on shoulders of the giant fool, 
and laugh as empires collapse into gangs. 

Hard Soil Of Desire

Hard Soil Of Desire
© Surazeus
2026 10 26

The angel may need their clandestine sorrows 
to fuel aggressive progress of their soul, 
but humans rely on religious faith 
to veil reality from their sharp eyes, 
so I reach out my trembling hand of hope 
to snatch ripe apple from the snake of fate. 

The seed of thought that blossoms from my brain, 
then fructifies as spirit of the self, 
binds me to cherished frame of reference 
that is my fragile body of hard flesh, 
since glowing wind of mindless clouds conveys 
breath of infinity through my sponge brain. 

Lodged by design or random accident 
of fateless chance through passionate discourse 
of strangers, who embrace with hope to leap 
beyond abyss of death on frantic wings, 
I wake as flower of this dreaming globe, 
deluded to believe I might be God. 

Through unknown process of electric thought, 
my sense of conscious self expands each hour 
that I express through motion of intent 
concern for maintenance of my soul flame 
that flickers fragiley in blast of time 
when I scrape food from hard soil of desire. 

When I attempt to outstrip bands of time 
with breath-fueled bout of energetic faith, 
then stand unjaded on high peak of thought 
and challenge faceless clouds of gusting wind, 
who seems aware that I assert my right 
to exist, I feel my heart swell with love. 

Proud men with gangs of mindless warriors, 
who obey commands of his voice to kill 
lone men who dare defy his right to rule, 
sit on high thrones of judgement to declare 
rules that govern how men should interact 
to maintain the food-production machine. 

When I stand before that proud mortal man, 
who insists he reigns by right of the sun, 
I wonder that he hopes with bitter faith 
to live forever as God on this Earth, 
because false glory of all human gods 
will fade as they decay and dissipate. 

Vain humans who believe that they are gods, 
commissioned by the mindless fate of fear 
to organize complex societies, 
come and go in strict tides of social change, 
but farmers who produce food from the soil 
remain in gardens where their children play. 

Literary Swamp Of Truth

Literary Swamp Of Truth
© Surazeus
2026 10 25

My body undulates with grace of change, 
emerging from green slime of solitude 
to dance with laughter on cracked skull of God 
mistaken as foundation stone of fate 
on which priests build religions of regret 
to claim vibe of salvation with false prayer. 

I catch the cannonball of psychic fear 
fired from political mouth of greed 
that reassembles houses of blind souls 
who gather diamonds from angelic graves 
so we can prove our right to eat old books 
dredged from the literary swamp of truth. 

Yet iron frog of wisdom crawls from screen 
of screaming television to adjust 
stark focus of our minds on eyeless clocks 
that tick in breasts of mermaids who recall 
halcyon days in dark Seattle streets 
where twisted jesters cheat naive bank clerks. 

My brother climbs fake pyramid of gold 
to ask the ghost of telephones why fate 
chooses some to be true face of the times 
while others labor in obscurity 
with humble commitment to noble truth 
which tricks their hearts with illusion of fame. 

Still undefeated by bland mockery 
that time hurls at glass faces of sad seers, 
I dare express defiant words to show 
wreck of my life, on highway of concern, 
reveals that spinning wheels fortune designs 
trick sirens to rescue my soul from books. 

Stuck in the literary swamp of truth, 
I pave ten thousand roads between small towns 
where fairies play banjos in grocery stores 
with noble purpose of the iceberg queen 
who fishes sorrow from polluted pools 
till we lean against brick walls without cause. 

If you have nothing better to do now, 
meet me at the book bazar in the park 
so we can tear the ghosts of bitter fools 
from fairy tales of arrogant dismay 
before blind senators can legislate 
how we may use our bodies to know love. 

When old man on the beach of lonely waves 
asks why do we live and why do we die, 
I take two cigarettes out of his hand 
and give him apple that I bought from Eve 
so we can know strange pleasure of the heart 
expanding scope of truth beyond the swamp. 

Tree Of Flashing Brains

Tree Of Flashing Brains
© Surazeus
2026 10 25

Despite skillful disorder of rain clouds 
that knock my body around on the hill, 
I am the wondrous man with winged feet 
because I know strange secret of the wind 
who whispers programmatic code of love 
which helps my find the tree of flashing brains. 

Disperser of rich grace on stepping stones, 
I gather snowflakes into books of dreams 
which I bear to peak of the mountain thought 
to weave bright laughter of wild ocean waves 
within unsullied passion of my heart 
through generous wisdom of the loyal moon. 

When I walk with the departed through Hell 
on dainty feet of ballet nonchalance, 
I find beguiled bride of the empty well, 
perplexed by faithless lust of abstinence 
that fuses bodies of strangers with hope 
to incarnate as ghost with mask of glass. 

I follow empty chairs on winding road 
through fields of wheat where alabaster crows 
breathe beauty of the light in human flesh 
who paints the face of God as apple sphere 
which I bake on the plate of hungry clay 
that proves my right to live in liberty. 

Transformed from wood dolls with emerald eyes 
into lithe boys and girls with moonlit skin, 
we race along the river of glass skulls 
to crown the winner with the crown of thorns 
forged with gold melted from idols of gods 
whose faces reincarnate as our souls. 

Wild mob of people run in driving rain 
and crowd into Museum on Skull Hill 
in frantic flight to escape swirling flood 
that sweeps their farmhouses and herds away 
so fields of wheat become bright sea of tears 
that fills their hearts with desert emptiness. 

The oldest woman in the world declares, 
while holding million-year-old skull of God, 
that we must thrive through curiosity, 
always asking questions to understand 
how Death will measure fortune of our lives 
when lovers almost touch at end of time. 

Millions of people killed in civil wars 
crowd shore of the River Styx at midnight, 
but Charon shouts that they must all return, 
so faceless ghosts of hungry refugees 
haunt shopping malls from sea to shining sea 
where they sing beneath tree of flashing brains. 

Humble Prophet of the Cow

Humble Prophet of the Cow
© Surazeus
2026 10 25

To understand how light of long-dead stars 
animates human brains with fierce desire 
to fly with joy above this rumbling globe, 
I ask the humble prophet of the cow 
who gives me holy grail of milk to drink, 
so I feel tree roots curl into my heart. 

Cassandra walks beside the spinning wheel 
that rolls home-wagon on the windy plain 
on endless walk to find the Promised Land 
ruled by the humble prophet of the cow 
who writes strange puzzles on tablets of clay 
that cause time visions to flash in her eyes. 

Crouched by the wagon wheel of wordless hope, 
Cassandra watches with obsessive eye 
her father walk into the shadowed woods 
to ask the humble prophet of he cow 
which way they need to go on signless road 
to find the palace of the laughing clown. 

Head buzzing with mute terror of undeath, 
Cassandra treads the liminal expanse 
of sorrow toward horizon of her heart 
to hear the humble prophet of the cow 
proclaim his hegemonic state of mind 
which traps brave people in harsh tyranny. 

Advanced against blurred obstacles of faith 
to transcend metaleptic wall of fear 
erected by postprandial somnolence 
before the humble prophet of the cow 
can catch the angel falling off the moon, 
Cassandra parts veil to the Otherworld. 

Inspired by spark of new insightful vibe 
that channels flow of psychic synergy, 
Cassandra abjures fractured paradigm 
spooled by the humble prophet of the cow 
that affirms function of male privilege 
exploiting fertile nature of the womb. 

Spearheading progress of leveraged love 
against systemic power of desire, 
Cassandra gathers riddles of glass skulls 
forged by the humble prophet of the cow 
to build impactful program of respect 
ensuring mothers feed their children well. 

While drawing soul of serpents from the well 
whose whispers teach her secrets of dream runes, 
Cassandra gazes back down road of life 
paved by the humble prophet of the cow, 
and wonders how her brave children will fare 
in game of life long after she is dead. 

Rope Of His Attentive Love

Rope Of His Attentive Love
© Surazeus
2026 10 25

Sunlight streams in stained-glass window of Christ 
as Shepherd herding sheep in river vale 
inside the Seventh-day Adventist Church 
on hilltop in small town of Keene in Texas 
where people in flower dresses and suits 
gather on Saturday morning for Sabbath. 

Exiting the large Sabbath School classroom 
with his leather Bible pressed to his chest, 
Albert glides with large crowd in long hallways 
and downstairs to main sanctuary hall 
where he sits beside his mother and sisters, 
but hopes to see sweet angel of his heart. 

Pastor Ron Halverson, who had grown up 
as a Beachcomber gangster in Brooklyn, 
steps up to the podium on the broad stage, 
looking like Stephen King in a gray suit, 
and points up to stained-glass window of Christ 
to illustrate his role as selfless Savior. 

The Lord of Truth is Shepherd of my soul, 
for his bounty supplies all that I need, 
so I lie in pasture by tranquil stream 
after his guidance through dark vale of fear 
restores my soul with fruit from Tree of Life 
when we feast in safe haven of his care. 

When I was young in wild streets of New York, 
my friends and I would play a dangerous game 
where we would tie long rope of haughty faith 
on southern side of the high Brooklyn Bridge, 
then dive into swift tide of the East River 
that flows swift to the Upper New York Bay. 

Diving down in swift tides of the East River, 
that flushes back and forth for hours each day, 
is like our plunge into flow of desire, 
so we would have to breathe deep breath of hope 
and swim up fast enough to grab the rope, 
or tides of greed would sweep our souls away. 

Our Shepherd Jesus reaches down his hand 
with loving gesture of the bridge-bound rope, 
so we must reach our hands with honest faith 
to grab strong rope of his attentive love 
and climb with faith back to the sturdy bridge 
to secure our place in Heaven with God. 

After they sing the hymn Amazing Grace, 
Albert searches through the large milling crowd 
till he finds Daphne Stuart in green dress 
with blue eyes and gold curly hair who smiles 
when he gives her small box of chocolate, 
and she gives him her painting of a horse. 

Cosmic Self Of Ungod

Cosmic Self Of Ungod
© Surazeus
2026 10 24

Every conscious soul of organic flesh, 
woven from quick coils of electric eyes, 
who wakes from pulsing passion of desire 
on every planet in the universe, 
then sings with love to generate new life, 
dreams alive with cosmic self of Ungod. 

Though alone in forever now of me 
as I stroll along winding stream of hope 
on this one globe of all time-spooling globes 
that teem with souls across the multiverse, 
I sing with universal choir of souls 
so alive with cosmic self of Ungod. 

While trembling with fear in the wilderness, 
wounded from attack of demonic rage 
when my husband drove me out of our home 
because I bear no children from his seed, 
I gaze at silent sky of gleaming stars 
that swirls bright with cosmic self of Ungod. 

Our world of high mountains and surging seas, 
that seems so huge at center of all space, 
is but one tiny globe of transient souls 
in one small galaxy of countless stars 
in humungous ocean of streaming light 
that spirals from cosmic self of Ungod. 

Old bearded prophet with star-flashing eyes, 
Isaiah gives me bread and juice to eat, 
then guides me across waste land of despair 
in tour along safe edge of the abyss 
till we arrive at garden of fruit trees 
that blossoms from cosmic self of Ungod. 

With gentle hands of attentive concern 
Isaiah gives me shelter in his heart, 
so, while he writes fierce prophecies in verse 
to guide our king on path of righteousness, 
I weave tapestry that depicts creation 
of our world from cosmic self of Ungod. 

When I bear strong child from seed of Isaiah, 
and name him Sariel, the Prince of El, 
cruel husband who drove me out of our home 
appears and demands I return to him, 
but ravens swoop down from the Tree of Love 
and drive him from cosmic self of Ungod. 

With nimble fingers of expressive joy 
Sariel plays harp of David and sings psalms 
describing oneness of our universe 
where every conscious being of mortal flesh 
glows with immortal spirit of the stars, 
born as souls from cosmic self of Ungod. 

Unjust Death Of The Honest Man

Unjust Death Of The Honest Man
© Surazeus
2026 10 24

When Proserpina, daughter of Ceres, 
returns after the harvest festival 
with Mercurius to resume her role 
as manager of jewel mines for Pluto, 
skipping as she sings psalms of blooming fruit, 
Hecate opens gates with Key of Death. 

Eyes sparkling with joy from her summer play 
with her sweet mother in Elysian Fields, 
Proserpina twirls to show off her new dress, 
hugs cute Mercurius, who blushes shyly, 
then skips past gates down to the mines of Pluto 
where criminals dig jewels from deep caves. 

Just before Hecate locks gates of Hades, 
Jesus Florian Silva from Mexico, 
who died in crowded cell in Texas jail 
while in the custody of officers, 
slips free from Underworld of the mute dead, 
eyes glowing with light of the Watchful Owl. 

Following power lines that glow bright gold 
in vast network of word-shimmering voices, 
Jesus searches for flames of energy 
that glow in hearts of his children and wife, 
then spots their sorrow as they return home 
from his funeral in the humble church. 

Haunting the home he built with his own hands 
after working thirty years in construction, 
Jesus watches his wife, Sofia Dolores, 
born in the rugged hills of Venezuela, 
prepare supper for their extended clans 
who gather to remember his kind soul. 

Standing before crowd of family and neighbors, 
gathered at the evening velorio, 
Sofia, wiping tears from her eyes, relates 
tale of his hopeful quest across the desert, 
then working sunrise to sunset each day 
so their Texas-born children attend college. 

My kind-hearted Jesus Florian Silva, 
who always worked hard and obeyed the law, 
and paid his taxes though he could not vote, 
was arrested and beaten without cause 
by the cruel immigration officers 
who left him to die in the crowded jail. 

As everyone weeps and wails in outrage 
about unjust death of the honest man, 
Jesus glides away from his crowded home, 
follows glowing wings of Mercurius, 
and walks back through the jeweled gates of Hades 
where Morpheus gives him cider to drink. 

Melodies Of Psychic Math

Melodies Of Psychic Math
© Surazeus
2026 10 24

While I wander endless maze of hard streets 
through crowds of angels wearing human masks, 
my heart sings melodies of psychic math 
to reprogram private religious faith 
by weaving all national fairy tales 
in single epic of the human race. 

I drive through black rain drenching country road, 
that winds through forest of satyrs and nymphs, 
but slam breaks hard when ghost of innocence 
leaps into headlight beams with bloody face, 
so I lift from sharp gravel of despair 
fallen angel as hysterical girl. 

Shivering beside me in brown vinyl seat 
while I race Chevy Malibu to town, 
young girl in jeans, white blouse, and cowboy boots, 
whispers her tragic story with hoarse voice 
that slithers on snake skin into my spine 
so shudder at horror of her fear. 

I drove from Florida to Tennessee 
to study computer programming code, 
where nice boy, who seemed interested in me, 
lured me into dark woods behind the school 
where his jealous girlfriend cut me with hate 
then bashed my head with chunk of sharp cement. 

While I stare at her fractured skull in shock 
where her brain pulses with divine god-mind, 
my heart screams melodies of psychic math 
that program human brains with love and hate 
so we fight for our place in game of power 
where some may win, but all die in the end. 

I wonder what fraught formula of hope 
drives humans, seeking to protect their rights, 
to kill other humans who block their way, 
which manifests as endless bloody wars 
fought by nations over ten thousand years 
for whose ancestral god is the True God. 

When I arrive at the hospital door 
that glows warm in the freezing rainy night, 
I call for help to nurses in white gowns, 
but when they arrive with their healing hands 
the wounded girl I rescued from dark woods 
is nothing more than a broken Barbie doll. 

While I kneel at grave of the murdered girl, 
whose ghost sought my help one dark rainy night, 
my heart prays melodies of psychic math 
so I can calculate cause and effect 
of greedy lust that drives humans to kill 
so we confirm our souls with self-control. 

Time Unfolds The Nothing

Time Unfolds The Nothing
© Surazeus
2026 10 24

Since time unfolds the nothing of our joy 
which we have built on memories of pain, 
I walk away from shambles of my faith 
and wander nowhere in the wordless world, 
then sit alone on river shore of fate 
with nothing but my hope to contemplate. 

Befuddled by confusing stream of thoughts 
that jumble memories of suffering 
in scattered puzzle of painful abuse 
that people hurl at me with bitter hate, 
I watch clear water of the river flow 
in trance that seems to cause the world to slow. 

Intense arrest of sudden fractured fear 
suspends me in unmoving quietness, 
so I begin to float on breathless wings 
of ardent sparrow outside frame of flesh, 
soul swelling far beyond shell of my mind 
through undulating horror hope designed. 

Too clear before my eyes of bleeding rage 
I see again that scene I would forget 
when cruel men dragged my mother from our home, 
then left her bleeding by the dusty road, 
so moment light of life flashed from her eyes 
now shrouds my soul as shadow of dark skies. 

Three days and nights of endless bitter tears 
wound my disbanded heart with anguish tight, 
too wounded from despair as I cried out 
for her to wake from nothingness of death, 
then buried her with flowers by the tree 
that tricks me to believe her soul is free. 

When gang of boys from town surround my place 
of refuge in bright forest of fruit trees, 
I whirl oak staff I carved with serpent face 
to bash their heads when they grab at my arms, 
till they all crawl as dogs on dusty ground, 
then vow I am their queen on goddess mound. 

Brave warriors of my heart obey my words 
when we attack high ziggurat of power 
and fight the bankers in their halls of wealth 
to free humble farmers from slavery, 
then wear the crown of law on judgment throne 
to rule the land with fair justice alone. 

Since time unfolds the nothing of our sorrow 
which we have built from memories of pleasure, 
I return to garden of our respect 
to shelter you with wisdom of my heart 
so we thrive in temple of our world view 
till death erases us from dream of love. 

God Mind In My Brain

God Mind In My Brain
© Surazeus
2026 10 23

When darkness of my heart breathes stellar lust, 
I dare collude with psychic force of hope 
to fight against oppressors of the mind 
who try to poison fruit from Tree of Life, 
but I know apples sweeten in the dark, 
which tames the serpent of my heart with love. 

When beauty writhes from fractured egg of light, 
I gaze through trees to see soul of mankind 
that shimmers deep inside our pulsing hearts 
till beams of passion radiate from our brains 
so we become wild angels in fruit trees, 
immortal genes that coil from ocean waves. 

I visit every temple in the world, 
built long ago by reverent hands of faith, 
and stand in darkness of their ruined truth 
to feel brave spirit of humanity 
that hides in terror inside sunless halls 
from writhing serpent of our hungry hearts. 

Waist-deep in green pool of the mountain stream, 
among enormous stones of jumbled thoughts, 
I bathe in tears of devils who perceive 
how darkness nurtures light of human hearts 
to cleanse my body of selfish disease 
so I may transform into swirls of light. 

The common belief, that the human soul 
beams down to animate our mortal flesh, 
then remains whole with conscious sense of self 
after our bodies crumble into dust, 
has been the greatest falsehood of all time 
that still deceives most people with vain hope. 

How comforting to believe that our soul 
could exist intact before we are born 
and might still remain long after we die, 
because few conscious beings alive on Earth 
are willing to accept with aching heart 
that we are transient flames of flashing light. 

Because whole mental program of my brain 
has been designed by each subsequent life 
of my ancestors struggling to survive 
as they evolve four hundred million years, 
my sense of conscious self glows fiercely bright 
so I feel divine God Mind in my brain. 

Tricked by this feeling of immortal life 
that animates my million-year-old brain, 
I breathe ethereal spirit of this Earth 
and sing epic poem of philosophers 
who seek to understand essence of truth, 
translating mute fear into light of faith. 

Mirror Of Indelible Truth

Mirror Of Indelible Truth
© Surazeus
2026 10 23

Inside mirror of indelible truth 
my face multiples to ancestral masks 
so I almost forget who I am now, 
but with attentive song of love for all 
I reassemble conscious self of being, 
then walk in maze of competitive games. 

Trained by ten million years of fights for food, 
we humans compete to control the dirt, 
squared by diameter of stark moonlight, 
but I withdraw from constant games of faith 
so you can fight for glory of false fame 
since we will all become dirt in the end. 

I step into strange vastness of our world, 
though bound by limits of this time in space, 
to navigate excessive swirls of lust 
that urges our frail bodies to collide 
with passionate ambition to expand 
scope of power that includes storm-calm clouds. 

When the river veers away from the road, 
I swerve from dutiful way of desire 
to disassociate my brain from games 
that people play to win the sparkling prize, 
then gather river stones with bleeding hands 
to build high tower of heavenly hope. 

Spurred on by sadness lurking in my heart, 
I gather dust of deserts in blank books 
to mold glass idols of important gods 
that glow with nuclear power of blind faith 
when I float candles in small paper boats 
as lamentation for their tragic death. 

Awake in Time House, haunted by dead gods 
who live in children without secret names, 
I contemplate strange riddle of the rain 
that types new formulas of psychic truth 
causing my sponge brain to recollect 
memories of suffering that people discard. 

While tending cattle herd of Helios 
with clandestine plan to preach the good news, 
I feel my body dissipate to words 
that flutter frantically in summer breeze 
so I become fairytale character 
that no one roots for on the movie screen. 

Penelope expects me to comply 
with social regulations that endow 
inalienable rights on my transient soul, 
transformed by names of flowers in the mud, 
so I become the father of my brain 
that shimmers vaguely in mirror of fate. 

Wicker Basket Of Wealth

Wicker Basket Of Wealth
© Surazeus
2026 10 23

Since angels struggle to explain despair 
to oak trees lounging in the parking lot, 
roots cracking miles of asphalt into crumbs, 
Plato joins convention of architects 
where he presents new way to visualize 
city landscapes that favor garden pools. 

Watching sunrays flash on the mountain ridge 
when Eos weaves forms of the world from light, 
Rixende sits among tall willow trees 
with branches heaped on workbench of her heart, 
and contemplates strange beauty of the world 
as she weaves wicker baskets with strict care. 

Watching butterflies on wild lavender, 
Rixende calculates from market price 
how many baskets she should weave today 
to earn enough coins from her crafting hands 
that lets her purchase the small copper pot 
which Gauzbert hammers into useful shape. 

Though passion of time cannot be contained 
with serpent riddles in bottle of hope, 
Rixende contemplates how sweet perfume 
might enchant metallic heart of Gauzbert 
to notice graceful beauty of her soul, 
but decides to buy the cooking pot instead. 

While teaching Alamanda how to weave 
wicker baskets from slender willow limbs, 
Rixende explains concept of its type, 
how Idea of Basket provides form 
as standard pattern of restrictive size 
that contains matter within useful shape. 

Every material basket that exists 
embodies in span of its time and space 
the Perfect Basket in Realm of Ideas, 
which we call Heaven of changeless truth 
because it provides frame of reference 
for matter to become things of this world. 

Stopping by her booth in the market place, 
that radiates outward from Temple of Ceres, 
Plato inspects several baskets with care, 
gives her three silver obols stamped with owls 
while praising tightness of the wicker weave, 
then strolls away with basket on his arm. 

Though ten thousand years of time has transformed 
cities on Earth from ziggurats to towers 
since crafty Tayet first designed the basket, 
we still weave round baskets from willow limbs 
so children may gather eggs from the woods 
when Ishtar sparks life to spring from the Earth. 

Creation Of One Thought

Creation Of One Thought
© Surazeus
2026 10 22

Through weary struggle of uncertain gain 
against ten thousand years of heartless pain 
we strive to build empires of clan estates 
secured by watchtowers on jeweled gates 
to guard our paradise of lush fruit trees 
from homeless gangs of plundering refugees. 

Bright angels wearing jeweled crowns of thorns 
in white robes on the river shore blow horns 
to praise great hero who returns from war 
and kneels before his mother at the door, 
then drinks from cup of wine his father gives, 
teary-eyed with joy that his first son lives. 

Great shining castle of our family power 
gleams on hill of clouds high above the tower 
where pregnant princess in the window sings 
heart-aching sorrow soft as raven wings, 
for she sees Death in long white robe of light 
approach with broken tablet of her plight. 

She turns and gazes at me across time 
that startles me in trance at eerie chime, 
since words she sings project on silver screen 
progress of her reign as Queen Melusine 
whose serpent blood still simmers in my veins 
with writhing ambition of divine gains. 

When searing anguish throbs inside my heart 
through formulas that bloom on the star chart, 
I try to break my gaze from eyes of fame 
that hypnotize my mind with the world game 
men play to achieve great things till they die 
while I just want to float in wingless sky. 

Awake too long from endless hours of watch, 
I feel my soul-projecting brain gear notch 
up higher through coiled maze of blazing gods 
as pulsing spheres that flash on crystal rods 
in vast Kabbalah tree of One God Eye 
that tricks my mind to cartograph the Why. 

Great Eye of timeless truth expands from flash 
that flares into our multiverse of cash 
by weaving conscious beings of hungry hope 
from spooling coils of soul-genetic rope 
so we assemble on high ziggurat 
where Ishtar sings Creation of One Thought. 

When I find broken Lyre of Mercury, 
I learn how to fix it from Liberty, 
then sing how social systems organize 
brave talents who compete to win the prize 
of honor as gods in Temple of Fate 
though everyone will die at any rate. 

Code Of My Shibboleth

Code Of My Shibboleth
© Surazeus
2026 10 22

Translating the code of my shibboleth 
to universal truth about the heart, 
I filch sacred treasure of the mad wolf, 
who wears gray suit and red tie stained with blood 
of angels lost among the metal trees, 
then map the waste land of the modern heart. 

Every house in which my body has glowed 
still shimmers on the endless road of life 
where other people dwell inside my rooms 
and wonder why my faceless voice of hope 
still whispers from the walls where photos frame 
fragment of my soul that I left behind. 

Collision of our bodies on the grass 
sparks flowers to expand beyond their scope 
so our courageous arms of calm respect 
embrace whole strangeness of our cluttered world, 
till all the faceless versions of my self 
gather in circus of the red-crowned crane. 

Though demons climb down ladder of my mind, 
intent on stealing scripts for tragic shows, 
I hide sad ghosts of epic characters 
between the writhing words of fairy tales 
so they can live free from worship of men 
who expect them to embody the Good. 

I follow honeybees to hill of skulls 
where prophets and messiahs without jobs 
assemble every Sunday afternoon 
to eat hamburgers and talk about why 
so many humans still suffer and die 
despite their teachings about honest love. 

Strong in conviction of honor with pride, 
I declare the Great Yes and the Great No 
through oxymoron of ambiguous truth 
so my soul oscillates with angel wings 
between opposing poles of equal facts 
that contradict the logic of their power. 

Based on quiet mathematics of weight, 
another branch on the great Tree of Knowledge 
breaks and drops in solitude of faith 
with no warning from storm of global war 
that forces us to play heroes or fools 
in bitter gamble to transcend our fate. 

Firecrackers burst in honest hearts with love 
so I transform from dinosaur to god 
who has no heart inside frame of my soul 
though it swells huge as plane with silver wings 
that carries refugees from civil wars 
who sell their shibboleth to live in Heaven. 

Goldfinch Of Voronezh

Goldfinch Of Voronezh
© Surazeus
2026 10 22

The goldfinch, who teaches me how to see 
strange beauty of this world with star-blind eyes, 
brings page torn from old book of poetry 
that mad Osip wrote ninety years ago 
among clanking factories of Voronezh 
so he could escape to Elysium. 

Encased in callous glass of gleaming ice, 
poplars writhe with anguish of slippery hope 
while crows on high cathedral dome of death 
lust for hate-mangled souls of soldiers killed 
in brutal battles to control the Dream Book 
which bleeds with laughter of the Brittle Bride. 

Exiled from Heaven of blooming fruit trees 
with roots that deconstruct corpses of gods, 
grim Osip walks stone streets of broken tombs 
to hide from tyrant with ten thousand eyes 
whose mouth chews bodies of farmers and clerks, 
transforming them to angry grunts with guns. 

Almost one hundred years since global war, 
which the Savior fought to cancel the Tyrant, 
the goldfinch lands in twisted limbs of fate 
in diseased tree outside my office window 
to spark awake in heart aching for hope 
spirit of Osip which defies despair. 

With vision of the goldfinch in my heart, 
who teaches secrets of the monstrous greed 
that drives men to oppress their fellow men, 
exploiting us to build false legacies, 
I map rise and fall of his tyranny 
through his pillage that leaves our nation wrecked. 

Though I live far across the sea of hope 
in Promised Land plundered by oligarchs, 
the goldfinch of Voronezh with black wings, 
and Apollonian feathers of respect, 
brings tattered quill of Osip to my hand 
for me to prophesy victory of truth. 

Yet prophecies against gangs of rich thieves, 
who attempt to erect new fascist state 
on fractured ruins of democracy, 
seems almost vain in darkest hour of fear, 
till I remember with sly mocking grin 
that cruel tyrants always fall in disgrace. 

Though storm of war for who controls the Dream Book 
brews over resilient Land of the Free, 
the goldfinch of Voronezh brings to me 
key to endurance against tyranny 
when people sea to shining sea unite 
to follow shining lamp of Liberty. 

Endless Float Of Doom

Endless Float Of Doom
© Surazeus
2026 10 21

Too perfectly framed with beautiful thoughts 
of evening sunlight glowing in tree limbs, 
this timeless hour of shocking namelessness 
preserves strange sense of eerie nonchalance 
that has sustained my endless float of doom 
since childhood spurs reckless passion to live. 

To savor my imposter syndrome as fame 
that redesigns conceptual sense of self, 
which I wear over my real face as mask, 
I twirl on front lawn of my empty house 
and call names of ancestors in the wind 
who leave their voices in mailbox of faith. 

Mind opulent with stolen words of truth, 
unpolished by kismet of fractured thoughts, 
I look at this weird world of pulsing forms 
with brave assurance of indifferent light 
that forces me to see essential glow 
which echoes from mute hollowness of hope. 

Without his demon harp, on which he strummed 
the secret chord that pleased no baffled god, 
King David stands at podium of accord, 
dressed in tweed jacked of professorship, 
and reads entangled verses of the ghost 
whose sorrow haunts the audience with blank eyes. 

Awake in garden of the weeping idol 
with faceless shadow of my mortal soul, 
that sits beside me in the brutal sun, 
I ponder vaguest contour of world truth 
that shrouds my body in decay of words, 
so I become roots of the hungry tree. 

Death wanders with me on the signless road 
and laughs each time that I erect with care 
another sign that names with candid code 
great hero who defies Fate with their deeds, 
but now lies rotting where the sign portends 
how far we walk to find the Promised Land. 

With Holy Spirit of my replicant, 
whose flashing psyche duplicates my brain, 
I sit beside my mother on the shore 
and listen to her endless song of life 
describing her performance in this world 
to reincarnate her soul inside my body. 

All my ancestors, whom I never see 
except as ghosts in early morning dreams, 
teach me how to perceive this changing world 
to understand strange essence of its being, 
then I record it all in book of jokes 
that hide moral lessons in fairy tales. 

New Mexico By The Moon

New Mexico By The Moon
© Surazeus
2026 10 21

Pungent coffee scent of discarded sorrow 
hangs in the fan-swirled air of wordless summer 
that scrawls its thin nostalgic taint on paper 
pressed in the chugging factory of fate 
which looms large as cathedral of the saint 
whose tears are used to cleanse communion dresses. 

Each time Cruel Jester gambles for tomorrow, 
with curious eyes attuned to social glimmer 
of late-night candles on the frantic taper, 
young Weeping Woman paints blood on the gate, 
commissioned by the whisper blowing faint 
as storm that cracks the bay of eager tresses. 

Dirt roads of innocent concern for wisdom 
are now paved with asphalt more gold than Heaven 
so children no longer chase the God Shadow 
on bloody bare feet of the civilized, 
but follow noble horse of the white stone 
that proves superior passion of our nation. 

To build republic on the shattered kingdom 
with holy blessing of demonic raven, 
we entrust government key to Black Widow 
who empowers all the marginalized 
with fertile farmland in the twilight zone 
so everyone transcends their social station. 

With sudden insight of the wicked laughter, 
that rocks the boat of fools on the oiled river, 
Cruel Jester gives Black Widow Ring of Power 
and asks if she would help him rule the Earth, 
but she has plans to set the People free 
by deconstructing world view of the Savior. 

Bundles of corn and sage hang from the rafter 
in secret marble palace of the Giver 
who wears mask of Rapunzel in the Tower, 
so she investigates to find the worth 
of serpent children dwelling in the tree, 
then writes dissertation on their behavior. 

Embarrassed by the plainness of his spirit, 
designed to imitate role of Apollo, 
Thor flies rocket ship to the outer reaches 
where angels ride dinosaurs on Neptune, 
and Beatrice marries Dante in the church, 
then returns in time to play Honest Tyrant. 

Commissioned by Odin to play the Prophet, 
Albert builds new mansion in Sleepy Hollow 
where daughter of Persephone still teaches, 
then drives to New Mexico by the moon 
with intent to continue his vain search 
for ways to integrate the hungry migrant. 

Golden Quill Of Truth

Golden Quill Of Truth
© Surazeus
2026 10 20

Though my heart aches with sorrowful despair, 
I pluck one feather from white raven wing 
who brings me mushrooms in the river grove 
where I catch serpents writhing in clear waves 
and carve on wood tablet Saturnian runes 
to prophesy with golden quill of truth. 

Based on bold admiration of respect 
for bitter suffering human souls endure, 
Hestia brings me gold grail with sparkling wine 
that beams weird visions from the mountain wind 
when Zephyr whispers in my radiant ear 
to prophesy with golden quill of truth. 

Enraged that we live free from chains of hate 
which he employs to bind us to his will, 
grim Pluto cowers in stone hall of rage 
and sends mad Midas to destroy our state, 
till Phoebus stands with lyre on global stage 
to prophesy with golden quill of truth. 

Shocked by his violent coup of fascist greed 
when Midas sends goon squad to steal the crown 
that Jesus wears with blood-red ruby gems, 
Minerva leads brave army of our faith 
in revolution against tyranny 
to prophesy with golden quill of truth. 

Attentive to needs of all citizens 
who dwell with freedom in land of the brave, 
Apollo wrestles Python in the cave 
where grand illusions blind us with false creed 
so he dispels hypnotic haze of fear 
to prophesy with golden quill of truth. 

Inspired by courage average humans show 
when faced with adverse obstacles to health, 
I climb high Mount Takoma with intent 
to find lost lyre of Mercury and play 
tropes in musical meter with thought rhyme 
to prophesy with golden quill of truth. 

Desperate to believe we live beyond death, 
we project our consciousness of the soul 
at atomic mirror of the universe, 
but we are temporary flames of love 
powered by eternal atoms of life 
to prophesy with golden quill of truth. 

Awake as me, on this globe, at this time, 
in timeless vastness of our universe, 
I sing with passion of atomic light 
that wakes God in neural net of my brain 
so I become Divine Mind, till I die, 
to prophesy with golden quill of truth.