Witching Hour Of Faith

Witching Hour Of Faith
© Surazeus
2026 10 30

At witching hour of faith, when graveyards yawn 
ghosts of our ancestors in bitter mist 
of cruel desire to claim gem of the moon, 
Basemath drinks hot cider of god blood 
to smear contagious words of hypocrites 
on cracked foundation stone of ruined fane. 

Bearing bag of skulls from dead haughty kings, 
that clatter with strange voices in dark woods, 
Basemath watches for mischievous sprites 
who bring ingredients into stone-wall fane 
where three witches boil juice of secret truth 
which they trick weary travelers to drink. 

Aware she treads parallel course of faith 
against suggestive council of the oak, 
Basemath wears mask of heavenly show 
when the slick-suited man with specious eyes 
pours pestilence of doubts into her ears 
that good she wills to do corrupts her heart. 

Reluctant to present her soul as good 
when she performs deeds that foster good will 
among poor people seeking food to eat, 
Basemath provides jars of fresh juice 
and baked bread in food booth by the gate 
where hungry people praise their benefactor. 

Enmeshed in foul contradictory rumors 
that taint her reputation with false greed, 
Basemath hurries down dark alleyway, 
but men abduct her from way of her heart 
and lock her in prison with other girls 
who plead for freedom from harsh slavery. 

Mind full of scorpions from anguished fear 
that jocund comfort has deserted her, 
Basemath summons from cave of her heart 
vile spirit of Hecate with dreadful spell 
to energize her fight for liberty 
when she details plan for their bold escape. 

Luring young guard into cell of desire 
with honeyed promises of secret pleasure, 
Basemath strangles him and wears his suit, 
then leads enslaved girls from cell of despair, 
by moonlit gliding toward riverside cave 
where they hide from soldiers hunting their souls. 

Free to frolic in dream light of the moon 
from radiant presence of wise Hecate, 
Basemath federates freed slaves with plan 
to farm fertile land with fruit trees and herbs, 
establishing self-sufficient commune 
so they thrive with liberty of free will. 

Book Of Psychic Codes

Book Of Psychic Codes
© Surazeus
2026 10 30

My ghost remains in homes where I once lived, 
scattered in towns across the continent, 
so they send signals through the ethernet 
that shimmer through the walls of everywhere 
to trick my meat-brain of hungry hope 
into accessing book of psychic codes. 

My ghost assembles fragments of my dreams 
into this meat-puppet that emanates 
radio waves of my temporary soul 
which conjures gust of wind outside my door, 
embodied by the soulmate of my heart 
who declares that she has become my Muse. 

My ghost strolls with me in the neighborhood 
while beaming images of you in wind 
so, when I glimpse blue glitter of the sea 
between the houses where strangers watch me, 
I see in water of its timeless flow 
source of language that fountains from our mouths. 

My ghost leads me to tree of tangerines 
that gleam bright as the sun on twisted limbs, 
so I breathe scent of flowers in the wind 
that fuels intense ardor of wanderlust 
to plot the mathematic flash of faith, 
yet I remain in room of countless doors. 

Ghost of my body emanates from me, 
posed idol-still on broken wall of fate, 
so I arrange smooth river stones in rings 
to mark its hollowness as sacred space 
where I stand safe on spinning globe of thought, 
pretending I still have my angel wings. 

Ghost of my brain vibrates with psychic waves 
when I open door to the fairy house 
where crystal eggs of angels glitter gold 
through which I teleport to distant worlds 
which all reflect state of this current world 
as mirror that presents alternatives. 

Ghost of my pulsing heart designs new face 
for me to wear when I leave fairy house, 
perched on the jagged cliff beside the sea, 
and visit market town with bag of coins 
so I can purchase book of psychic codes 
from lonely woman by the empty well. 

Ghost of my bones inherits song of waves 
so I assert attention of my heart 
to channel voices from the Otherworld 
who ask for secret of the Holy Grail, 
which I explain refers to how our genes 
incarnate in our children as new souls. 

Television Tube Of Truth

Television Tube Of Truth
© Surazeus
2026 10 30

When sparrows spring from sudden songs of hope, 
I hold ever-flowing hourglass of fate 
with supple laughter of our arrogance 
that happiness of flashing synergy 
could be more than frail bubble on the stream 
that vanishes with mist on web of dawn. 

Grand symphony of my eccentric heart 
swells with vibrant shadow from my grave 
as sunlit clouds that crack with thunder song 
to drench our city in spiritual rain 
with noisy burden of my wordless voice 
that radiates waves of songs on radios. 

Our spirits rise from swirling sea of dreams 
through bleached evaporation of desire 
to form enormous clouds of mindless gods 
that soak the waste land of the roadless west 
in screaming riddles of electric ghosts 
who transform into humans without hope. 

Dry Earth soaks our spirits into its heart 
so we bloom tall in trees of humming faith 
that morph our bodies into juicy fruit 
consumed by insatiable hope of Death 
who dances when I dare play violin 
for gods in abandoned aquarium. 

Ghosts of my Puritan ancestors glow 
as gold candles in pumpkin heads of gods 
when children dressed as cowboys and vampires 
loot strange treasures from mansions of the rich 
which they return to history museums 
to honor our savage civility. 

Trapped in the television tube of truth 
with masks of characters from fairy tales, 
I captain our sleek starship among stars 
to visit strange new worlds where devils trick 
humble farmers to support haughty kings 
till cities are destroyed by nuclear bombs. 

Emerging from vales of the jagged Alps, 
where lizard men dwell in bright jeweled caves, 
I build empire with Wand of Jupiter 
based on nutritious passion of wheat bread 
so I can find lost grave of Icarus 
and rebuild sky-ship of his broken heart. 

While growing old with sorrow of lost time, 
I carve weird riddles on black obelisk 
with serpent runes of star-engendered love 
that flash on television tubes of truth 
to hypnotize new children of dead gods 
who wrestle hovering cherubim of faith. 

Bills Of Righteous Greed

Bills Of Righteous Greed
© Surazeus
2026 10 29

If I am shadow of thought in your mouth, 
flowing in and out on forbidden wings 
to modulate terror unbinding fate, 
I might choose to dismiss obsessive hope 
that we may shape our commonality 
with pattern of assertive nonchalance. 

Strange letters in the mailbox of my heart 
present excessive bills of righteous greed 
disguised as sentimental anecdotes 
designed to prove faith can overcome fear, 
which liberates our spirits from our brains 
based on new theory of the wounded ghost. 

To wax enthusiastic about death, 
that follows us all the days of our lives, 
I map diaspora of our noble clan 
dispersed by war into the Neitherlands 
where wanderers follow the Tanglefoot 
who seems to know the way to Wonderland. 

Unscathed theme of problematic concern, 
on which we base fake courage of the fool, 
presents alternatives to loyal faith 
through momentary freshness in the air 
since sunshine always prevails in the end 
before we have the chance to calculate. 

Stuck on our return journey to the garden, 
where plangent chants of sorrowful belief 
teach us to breathe dislodged attentiveness, 
we study contrast between truth and lies 
embodied by the cake of holy days 
we celebrate with clandestine despair. 

Locked up inside unframed window of truth 
by absoluteness of the river boat, 
I edit memories of my childhood 
to taint their sorrows with embittered joy 
by which I stitch the obvious wilderness 
with new system of values death defines. 

Irascible with courage of the hero 
dedicated to achieve peace on Earth, 
I legalize my monstrous appetites 
with laundered puzzles of soul ambiance 
funded by institutions that demand 
obeisance to unwritten laws of right. 

Though strangeness of this world is marvelous 
with aromatic vapor of the heart, 
deodorized by fraught religious faith 
in glamorous lie of the afterlife, 
I ask the stranger in the maze of shops 
if they have heard the good news about death. 

Vaudeville Clowns Of Fate

Vaudeville Clowns Of Fate
© Surazeus
2026 10 29

Diverted by wisdom of horoscopes, 
he rides the wild-winged chariot of time 
to chant sharp spells with rhetorical zap 
that demask spies in Museum of Truth, 
trapped by bland interchange of morbid thoughts 
when dancing unrestrained in bitter joy. 

Gone homeward to the land of broken masks, 
after fighting against cruel tyranny, 
the prophet flies gray airplane beyond Heaven 
to visit every college in the woods 
and discourse on the valid route through Hell 
that angels trod to transform into gods. 

With wagons of encyclopedias 
the lonely prophet of the Promised Land 
knocks on doors of housewives after the war 
but they refuse to buy gold-lettered tomes, 
which leaves him stranded on the windy heath 
as uncrowned salesman of forgotten truth. 

Startled by cataracts of brave applause 
that resurrect the vaudeville clowns of fate, 
the lonely jester wearing suit and tie 
counts all the land deeds he has won at cards, 
but never visits those abandoned farms 
where devils hide wingless horses in eggs. 

No god invented from his memory 
haunts churches and cathedrals before dawn 
as faceless saints that gamble for the chance 
to predict the future in how birds fly, 
while tax collectors search the empty fields 
for skulls of prophets that refuse to sing. 

New index of his power transcends fear 
when he plays auctioneer of treasured lies, 
dispersed as payment for quick services 
rendered with the sentiment of clerks 
who program computers to calculate 
amount of faith left in our heart accounts. 

Through exegesis of his puzzling jokes 
we analyze his false biography 
to glean conceptual clues of ardent faith 
that help us decode riddles of his spells 
based on defiant paradox of love 
since he hides in the world he sings about. 

No grumpy old man on the windy heath 
shouts about injustice loud as King Lear, 
except the Everyman with offices 
above the bank whose business acumen 
provides framework for him to purchase Heaven 
and rent crystal palaces to false gods. 

Awake With Quantum Truth

Awake With Quantum Truth
© Surazeus
2026 10 29

Concatenation of our wordless love 
binds our bodies with invisible chain 
forged by hot thoughts of hungry memory 
which flashes us awake with quantum truth 
through ignorance of pleasure satisfied 
by flowers bursting from the lonely stone. 

Provisional concern of unstretched thought, 
that unwinds spirit winds on campus lawns, 
provides new frame of social reference 
for hungry minds to find conceptual faith 
rotting on bent tree of knowledge at dawn 
so space expands to mountain by the lake. 

To speak of spatial silence with stone words 
through menstrual fountain of our equal rights, 
we recognize extent of suffering 
bodies endure with anonymous shouts, 
kept alive by cold breath of spider webs 
so we become imaginary self. 

Another lesson in anatomy 
confounds perception of the vanishing 
from kitchen womb of competent desire 
so we bloom from despair of faceless faith 
against abuse of power, dramatized 
by subtle quietness of shadowed veils. 

Inspired by supple rhythms of spring light, 
we learn new tricks through sociology 
at frantic funeral of the desperate girl 
enslaved by thoughts of liberty from duty 
which she performs on empty stage of fame 
with passion based on longing for undeath. 

If she dares sing about mental release 
from uncompressed agony she hides 
in blank book of forgotten fairy tales, 
she may face postmodern obscurity 
obtained from gallery of broken masks 
when we forget the argument of breath. 

Stunned by the cancellation of vain hope 
at fractured laughter of the mocking clock, 
she holds small fragments of her truest self, 
once scattered on the field of humming stones 
who seem to know why caged birds never sing, 
while dancing on cold mornings of regret. 

Awake at whisper flow of silver clouds 
that part at coming of her honest ghost, 
she gives her name away to lonely trees 
so when they call each other in sunlight 
she hears her name echo in empty groves 
through haughty doubt of sacred solitude. 

Yearning Of My Glass Brain

Yearning Of My Glass Brain
© Surazeus
2026 10 28

Soul transformed by yearning of my glass brain, 
I walk the endless maze of city streets 
with Death as my companion in silk gown 
whose black eyes, vast as swirling galaxies, 
inspire my heart to sing beauty of life 
though engine roar mangles its melody. 

My mother and my father have grown old 
from searching vast maze of elusive hope, 
but spirit of desire they sparked in me 
powers my progress to become whole Self 
that combines all my ancestors in one soul 
which fractures into children of our genes. 

Each person is convergence of god souls 
whose genes weave their new body from desire, 
so we are tangled memories of love 
converted from despair that drives our will 
to transcend limits of our fragile frames 
as souls that swell huge as our spinning globe. 

When I get lost in maze of flashing doors, 
that lead to many different worlds of fate, 
Death takes my hand with gentle vigilance 
and guides me to perform role of my heart 
so I choose to create, and not destroy, 
with prudent attention to psychic needs. 

Though I am temporary node of genes, 
in which unconscious soul of atoms gleams 
as radiant passion to generate life, 
I program vision of our multiverse 
from mythic legends of religious books 
in world view that mirrors reality. 

I build whole world religion in my heart 
that refracts through yearning of my glass brain 
virtual model of our complicated world 
so I can make through clear analysis 
informed decisions in how I behave 
so I live as I will, if I harm none. 

Join me in Temple of Goddess Ishtar 
that shines with truth on Ziggurat of Ur 
to feast on harvest of productive hands 
and drink wine from fruit of our loyal hearts 
to bond our souls with contract of respect 
that nurtures United Nations of Earth. 

I see her light appear in gloom of fear 
when Liberty arrives with Lamp of Truth 
to wield honed sword of Justice with firm hand 
so we enforce equal rights for all souls 
who dwell together on this spinning globe 
that spirals from yearning of my glass brain. 

Westward On The Signless Road

Westward On The Signless Road
© Surazeus
2026 10 28

My ancestors have always left the land 
where they had lived since the dawn of their dream, 
traveling westward on the signless road 
to follow the sun across the great sky, 
then settled down in some new fertile vale 
to raise their children in the Promised Land. 

Now after ten thousand years of lost time 
I can look back on the long winding road 
of their journey each generation west 
over mountains and across seas in search 
for something they had never understood, 
and see there is no reason for our quest. 

Since I am just one individual node 
in ever-reincarnating chain of being, 
evolving through each life to become god 
in human flesh, awake with cosmic light, 
I know our endless journey is not done, 
for I have traveled sea to shining sea. 

What restless spark spurs my incessant trip, 
forth from safe haven of my childhood home, 
still urges me to walk the endless road, 
though I have aged, and prefer to remain 
quietly mapping history of mankind 
in marble temple of the Water God. 

As I cease forward motion of my soul 
and settle into daily work routines, 
that restless spark flashes bright in young hearts 
of my children, eyes glowing with that flame 
of hope that guides us far beyond the known, 
so they shall journey on as I rest here. 

Each land along the journey of my soul, 
which my ancestors left so long ago, 
still teems with descendants of other souls 
who stayed tied to our original land, 
and thrived in generations to this day 
so they remain in vale of my first dream. 

I long to travel back on road of hope 
to visit every land they left behind, 
and meet the people who still live there now, 
distant threads in tapestry of our genes 
that bind us all in matrix of world mind, 
so I can understand this urge to search. 

From one small tribe on fertile river shore, 
who thrive between the mountain and the sea, 
we spread in all directions of the wind 
to colonize the world with Calibans, 
so I would climb the Ziggurat of Ur 
to hear the ancient song of Ishtar ring. 

Revelation Of The Ardent Nurse

Revelation Of The Ardent Nurse
© Surazeus
2026 10 28

Though my soul has not yet drifted away 
on quick waters of ever-changing time, 
I measure alterations by the day 
to calculate how soon the deathly chime 
will vibrate soft melody of my name 
so I die before I am trapped by fame. 

Now withered with strange wisdom of the tree, 
I lounge in my pedantic Babylon 
and ponder how our actions make us free 
while plotting how to retake Avalon 
where my ancestor reigned as Fairy Queen 
till she was replaced by the Dream Machine. 

With stylus, forged from the same meteor stone 
which Arthur used to hone Excalibur, 
I wrote formulas on tablets which zone 
my legal right to reign as Lucifer 
because I bear Lamp of Diogenes 
to wield the thirteen magic Spirit Keys. 

I learn to walk upright in ocean waves 
after I lose my coiled tree-swinging tail, 
so now I chant hymns in shadow-weird caves 
while Helios herds milk cows in the dale 
through holy act on which empires are built 
that correct actions through brave sense of guilt. 

Phoebus hoops civilization with peace 
through illusion of justice based on rules, 
so kings judge deeds enforced by thought police 
while farmers produce food with humble tools, 
yet hermits search for God on Mount Meru 
outside frame of our religious world view. 

Fanatics frightened by liberal self worth 
attempt to crucify the humble clown, 
but his descendants thrive to conquer Earth 
by adding jewels to his thorny crown, 
so Rapunzel sings in Tower of Troy 
while Hamlet wanders the waste land of joy. 

Since I am still running to Paradise 
with the last penny of faith in my cap, 
I find fame is won by toss of the dice 
that turns its golden cage into the trap 
from which the wise seer can never escape 
though all the spinning world is their dreamscape. 

Before the second coming of the ghost, 
born from bitter witch of the city slum, 
I eat good breakfast of fried egg on toast, 
then sail Titanic to Byzantium 
with revelation of the ardent nurse 
who programs our view of the universe. 

Frantic Fairy Faith

Frantic Fairy Faith
© Surazeus
2026 10 28

Aroused by unkept memories of light 
reflected by slow flutter of oak leaves, 
I weave the spin of bike wheels with the flash 
of stops signs where ravens never assert 
strange answers to imponderable concerns 
that milk smells sweetest in the cereal bowl. 

Startled by unsung melodies of love 
that crackle on the untuned radio, 
I imagine that the round blue sky-dome 
is one enormous eye of innocence, 
like my eye with green isle inside blue sea 
where people live in memories of their hopes. 

Alert to unspooled stories in old books 
that wait for magic of my eyes to glow, 
I replay half-cut scenes of my short life 
to map my journey to the somewhere else 
from mountain far away where I was born 
as half-told tale of frantic fairy faith. 

Though I have stumbled randomly awake 
through decades of existence to my state 
of present being in small town of desire, 
I weave coherent tapestry of fate 
that narrates my life as some noble quest 
to become who I always choose to be. 

Enormous silence of eternal now, 
that hovers over me as cloud of light, 
slowly flaps excessive wings of words, 
so I gaze in eyes of my private Seraph 
whose face reflects, in one mask of the Self, 
all my ancestors who designed my being. 

Though split by storm of arrogant regret, 
the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil 
still provides fresh apples for me to eat, 
so I join sweet Ophelia by the lake 
who bakes apple pie from our wounded hearts 
which we share with Sigmund and Beowulf. 

Alone in vast white-walled museum room, 
I assemble from fragments of old tales, 
and news stories about tragic events, 
perceptive puzzles of the human soul 
that almost mirror psychic ghost of hope 
who haunts our dawns with wails of wordless prayers. 

Clouds float above broad field of barns and poles 
where cows graze among trees by the dirt road, 
this firm foundation of productive pain 
from which empires rise through labor of our hands 
when we weave memories of humble strife 
in religious tale of the sacrificed king. 

Weird Beauty Of The Dead

Weird Beauty Of The Dead
© Surazeus
2026 10 27

Perched on polished shelf in Museum hall, 
my skull will sing my puzzling prophecies 
ten thousand years after I turn to dust, 
for I have seen weird beauty of the dead 
who follow me down to the cave of dreams 
where they are shadows haunting books of tales. 

After I leave ghost of Eurydice, 
who haunts quaint bookstores of small college towns, 
I wander by deep river of lost souls 
where I spy corpse of sweet Ophelia 
floating on cold waves of bitter tears 
while clutching flowers of Persephone. 

I hear voice of the world in tweets of birds 
whose melodies enchant our wounded hearts 
with vision of life blooming from our death, 
but humans remain dead in dust of Earth 
while flowers bloom again as the world turns 
so I become laments sung for the dead. 

While I continue living in this world, 
singing sweet tunes of elegiac desire 
for lovers to embrace with loyal trust 
to generate new life before they die, 
ghost of my hope as fertile bride I lost 
haunts liminal space between life and death. 

Holding hands with gentle Ophelia 
as we stroll garden of Hesperides, 
my mind projects ghost of Eurydice 
so I sense nearness of her absent being, 
but when I turn at flash of her sweet thought 
I see Ophelia smiling with faith. 

No human ever born from womb of fate, 
flesh animated by spirit of hope, 
has ever returned from blank nothingness 
once our fragile forms of thought dissipate, 
yet still the living wake with otherness 
that binds our hearts with memories of the dead. 

Awake with luminous song of my Self, 
which emanates from God Eye of the All, 
I translate dreams of stars to human songs 
that mirror abyss of the hungry heart 
so we assert attention of control 
to balance passion swirling through our souls. 

With rhythmic pulse of energetic faith 
our bodies writhe in ecstasy of love 
so we may generate from flash of hope 
new body node to maintain coil of dreams 
that spirals from immortal soul of genes 
so Orpheus incarnates in my brain. 

New War For Mind Control

New War For Mind Control
© Surazeus
2026 10 27

Since green light has been premise in my eyes 
as metaphor for psychic arrogance 
for eighty years of harvests and rainstorms, 
I contemplate how generations change 
in wild tides of conflict and fellowship 
to nurture fruit trees from the barren lands. 

World view untwisted by barometer 
of social change in spectrum of false faith, 
I calmly record in world chronicle 
tragedy of new war for mind control 
that we fight to show impersonal green 
transforms our bodies from moist soil to flesh. 

My mind expands cosmological eye 
with vivid dream of how mankind evolves, 
refracted through vast prism of our brains, 
so I stand bewildered on mountain slope 
to study maze of streets in cityscapes, 
parallel with vagueness of wingless gods. 

Since polished mirror of my brain perceives 
ghost of God as horizon of new light, 
I map complexity of mortal lives 
in passionate competition with Death 
to prove their worth before they dissipate 
against fulfillment of the final phase. 

Though wizards bear wands and warriors swords, 
I carry pack of spatulas and pans, 
so when I wear One Ring of Divine Light 
I feel tempted to transform the waste land 
to garden of fruit trees where children play, 
but decide to toss that ring into Hell. 

Yet when I turn to broad experience, 
where sun-bleached skeletons of angry gods 
lie scattered on the sand with dream-wrecked ships, 
I wake inside cosmological eye 
to gain perspective of immortal mind 
in complex progress of world history. 

Therefore I choose calm life of daily rites 
with wife and children in our cozy home 
instead of waging war against mad gods 
whose haughty pride of arrogant disdain 
will cause their own downfall from throne of greed 
when I let Nature cripple tyranny. 

Complex landscapes sprawl in my lonesome eye 
as I adjust perspective of my heart 
based on new framework for world history 
designed to map progress of psychic growth 
when I assemble puzzle of world view 
from individual tales of birth and death. 

Home At Last To Avalon

Home At Last To Avalon
© Surazeus
2026 10 27

When garden of her heart has grown too wild, 
and swallows idol of god with tree roots, 
she tends grief of fire smoldering in her bones 
while lurking in vast shadow of the Sphinx 
till pendulum of fortune swings her way 
and knocks her to the ground with broken wings. 

Her father grows from tangled roots of fate 
in overgrown garden of screaming trees, 
lamenting holocaust of eyeless ghosts 
who crowd before locked gates of paradise 
till finger bones transform to bitter keys 
which open access to the Promised Land. 

Surprised by cycle of seasonal change, 
when birds with feathers of electric words 
fly south at blast of winds from hills of snow 
to leave our books they steal on windowsills 
of lonely angels in the nameless land, 
she laughs that none can pronounce her name right. 

At annunciation of her bride night 
at midnight in lush garden of deep pools, 
she whispers hostile prayer of gratitude 
that Death has chosen her of all his wives 
to incarnate his divine soul as God, 
then climbs wall of Heaven and runs away. 

Arriving at train station in bleak snow, 
young woman in the blood-stained bridal veil 
gives gold coins to poor people in torn clothes, 
then transforms into white bat with silk wings 
to haunt great kitchen of the castle witch 
who teaches her how to bake blackbird pies. 

Trained as brave somanaut by crippled clown, 
young bride of Jesus Frankenstein wears mask 
as she descends to Underworld of dreams 
to find the broken lyre of Mercury 
rusting on tomb of Orpheus the Christ 
which she repairs and sells to Tamerlane. 

To analyze material of this world 
and understand support of mental vibes, 
young bride in black lace dress of innocence 
designs new starship for her secret soul 
so she can time-warp through the multiverse 
and visit all her doppelganger selves. 

Returning home at last to Avalon, 
by tapping Tree of Knowledge with her wand, 
Minerva gathers refugees from wars 
and founds new nation based on equal rights, 
that may never exist on spinning Earth, 
where she tends garden of the wild goat boy. 

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.