Beauty Of Our Broken Things

Beauty Of Our Broken Things
© Surazeus
2026 09 13

If time elucidates fissures of fear 
with shocking beauty of our broken things, 
stored on book shelves of late afternoon light, 
I may decide to weave wires of my brain 
in spiral galaxies of dirt-road pools 
that lead me to the river of lost souls. 

Strange flashing energy of my brain soul 
is no temporary inhabitant 
inside frame of my flesh, because it beams 
intense self-consciousness of mirrored I, 
mapped by entangled sentences of myth 
that mark me as tenant of this strange globe. 

Awake in forest of tall faceless trees, 
frail body formed from mud by hands of fate, 
I kneel and pray to no one in the sky 
who gazes down at me from swirling clouds 
through billions of eyes that all see my soul 
leaking from my skin, though I rub the stone. 

I am always afraid the world will end 
in the next ten minutes of howling wind, 
so I play the antihero for God 
who stands stiff as stone in grand temple hall 
where men in robes chant solemn hymns of faith 
till airplanes bomb cathedrals into lies. 

Though I live under shadow of respect, 
veiled by cherub that hovers over me, 
I gather berries and nuts from the ground, 
and ask the oldest woman in the world 
if she would bake them in sweet pie of faith 
so I can sculpt formless God with cement. 

Beside every house along every road 
one tree of fruit shimmers as ghost of time 
who unwinds clock of atoms to expose 
my wounded heart on television screens 
so everyone can read clinical notes 
that diagnose malfunctions of my brain. 

Standing on grassy shore of starless lake, 
I hear secret song of the whip-poor-will 
who senses slow departure of my soul 
because I wish to join old Caspian Choirs 
to sing of true love with low rhythmic hum, 
preserved in language of my wounded tongue. 

While gathered around blazing fire of fate 
beneath bold jagged peaks on Isle of Skye, 
we share tales of weird supernatural beings 
which my investigations always show 
are lonely people wandering in the wild 
to conceal fissures of their wounded hearts. 

Tunes Of Apollonian Light

Tunes Of Apollonian Light
© Surazeus
2026 09 13

Through blazing lumination of my eye 
I see semantic sun of timeless why 
define how I perceive this world of forms, 
though thrashed by hunger of conceptual storms, 
when my mind reconciles pain of desire 
with facts my urgent heart confirms through fire. 

My mind creates the swirling sea I see 
as virtual model mirrored by the key 
unlocking darkness that expands the night 
with honest tunes of Apollonian light 
by which my eyes may analyze the real 
designed by flash of time-atomic wheel. 

Through tangled sentences of psychic verse, 
when I evaluate state of my curse, 
I signify with psyche-altered name 
essential nature fostered by our game 
inherent to our bodies that seethe force 
of brave emotions from chemical source. 

My mind constructs from visions of my eyes 
surreal landscape ringed by concentric skies 
based on mysterious concepts of weird words 
which I invent to imitate swift birds 
when we assemble to collaborate 
on map of this strange world we navigate. 

Through flash of my imagination dream, 
while sailing boat of clarity on stream 
of endless memories, composed of tales, 
I program mental system on taut scales 
to balance facts of objects I perceive 
with secret truth my mental gods conceive. 

When Lamp of Diogenes flickers out 
I stumble lost in darkness without clout 
till my brain projects ghosts of death I fear 
and conjures demons that linger too near, 
so I dispel illusions of despair 
by reconciling contrasts I compare. 

As messenger from otherworld of dreams 
I scout demonic caves of mental seems 
with mission of reconnaissance to find 
whole frame of reference that fears designed 
through synthesis of perception that presents 
new world view which explains psychic events. 

Through burning exactitude of the sun, 
reframed by moderate glow of the moon, 
I wake while riding passion of the colt 
through revelation of the lightning bolt 
to see our real world, from abyss of gloom, 
as fruit on totem of madness now bloom. 

Your Flower Of Stone

Your Flower Of Stone
© Surazeus
2026 09 13

Hummingbirds float on wings of happiness 
around frilly petals of pink petunias 
while Sepideh eats honeyed nuts and grapes 
in marble temple on the river shore, 
and hums with heart-aching song of romance 
that vibrates from small silver radio. 

Clutching acoustic guitar with his left hand, 
Tithonus leaps over her garden wall 
and runs with frantic fear along stone path, 
but slides to stop before the startled girl, 
so he bows with heart-felt apologies, 
then hides behind her couch with shifty eyes. 

Stepping quick with sharp clack of high-heeled shoes, 
Eos strides through gate to the garden grove 
and glares at Sepideh on silken couch, 
then demands with sharp voice of wounded pride 
that she stop hiding the arrogant boy 
whom she hired as her young lover to sing. 

Widening her eyes to feign innocence, 
Sepideh points to the back garden gate, 
then snickers when the jealous woman runs 
as she shouts for Tithonus to come home, 
then peers smirking over edge of the couch 
at the young man who palms his hands in thanks. 

Bowing before his savior with sly wink, 
Tithonus strums guitar with graceful hands 
and sings heart-aching tune, Gole Sangam, 
"I am your flower of stone, so what 
can I say to you with my longing heart, 
for the sun shines not on my cold gray soul." 

While Tithonus sings about his stone heart, 
Sepideh in long skirt of scarlet wings 
dances gracefully in soft summer breeze 
that swirls cherry blossoms into her hair, 
long black curls like storm clouds on her breast, 
then twirls into embrace of his strong arms. 

Wrapping her arms around his curly hair, 
Sepideh savors shimmer of his eyes 
as their lips merge with passion of respect, 
then they embrace to make love on the couch 
as Eos returns with gun in her hand 
and shoots Tithonus in the back with rage. 

"I promised you life forever with me," 
Eos snarls as blood fountains from his heart, 
"safe in the spacious mansion of my heart, 
but you stole treasure of my loyal trust, 
so you must pay the price of haughty greed." 
Sepideh weeps as he dies in her arms. 

World Of Faceless Ghosts

World Of Faceless Ghosts
© Surazeus
2026 09 13

Stuck too long in her world of faceless ghosts, 
Sylvia lingers outside the new bookstore 
in crowded downtown of the thriving city 
where she was born and lived for sixty years, 
to watch real human beings pursue their dreams 
with faces made from masks of long-dead gods. 

Staring at brass statue of her ancestor, 
that gleams tall on high marble pedestal 
on the wide median strip between busy streets, 
where faceless ghosts drive cars with bold intent, 
Sylvia wonders what drove him to go west 
from Massachusetts to wild Illinois. 

Who were you, Captain James Sylvester Dudley, 
my grandfather five generations back, 
who migrated in wagon train of hope 
to found this town on the river shore 
where Cahokia had lived ten thousand years, 
Sylvia asks the lonely evening breeze. 

When I was young and full of lust to live 
as popular cheerleader in high school, 
I saw our great land of America 
as brave leader of world democracy, 
so I worked thirty years in real estate, 
helping families buy homes to live well. 

Now grand illusion of our noble state 
has crumbled into heaps of stinking lies, 
exposing world empire of national pride, 
like all other empires through history, 
that has grown from farm of Ragnar Lothbrok 
to vast Viking State of America. 

I see in faces of Americans, 
who swirl around me on their private quests, 
spirits of Vikings with sharp eyes of hope 
who sailed to plunder treasures of the world, 
expanding from Britain to colonize 
fertile lands with fierce passion to live free. 

Since fall of Troy we sailed to Skandia 
where we preserved our ancient warrior creed, 
then built America with wheel and ax 
to form military industrial complex 
with computers linked by world wide web 
through which we rule empire of factories. 

How can we escape world of faceless ghosts 
whose spirits drive our conquest of the world 
through agenda of the Christian program 
to crown our founder Jesus King of Earth, 
Sylvia laughs at absurdity of life, 
since we build illusions on ancient myths. 

Language Of Dead Gods

Language Of Dead Gods
© Surazeus
2026 09 12

Pandora gives me old unopened jar 
that sat on top shelf in tall cabinet 
in kitchen where she cooks for eighty years 
to feed gods of Olympus every day, 
so I hold it up to the evening light 
to see my soul floating in honey liquid. 

Stung by consolation of swirling rain 
that drives me into vast cathedral cave, 
I draw stark breath of stars into my body 
to hollow out my heart with ecstasy 
that makes room for insight to state of sleep 
too similar to nothingness of death. 

Dawn light gleams through stained glass window of fate 
to illustrate vision of noble strife 
depicting Phoebus wrestling Lucifer 
over who will redefine how we see 
essence of being framed by electric words 
that drift as smoke from sacrificial flames. 

Exhaust of cars that billows from steel pipes 
in crystalline nights on star-frosted streets 
highlights strange beauty of eye-twinkling stars 
that should illuminate galactic face 
of our one world Mother Wraith who provides 
bounty of Earth we gather with our hands. 

I find myself in language of dead gods, 
small spark of life in vast abyss of nothing, 
so I lie on lush grass by stream of thoughts 
and savor glow of warm light on my skin 
to wonder why pain teaches us to feel 
alive from suffering in our search for pleasure. 

Pandora calls to me across the room, 
which is dream of the room where we live free, 
framed by quaint narrative of our romance 
which we repeat to anchor surge of faith 
that tosses us on seething tides of change 
so we hold hands till we find stable ground. 

She moves quick as bright beams of morning light 
across vast field of flowers on our graves 
till her fleet flash of temporariness 
becomes clear window of my empty house 
where I paint image of her smiling ghost 
on mirror floating at the core of time. 

White blossoms sprout from margin of my mind 
so I join Seraphim with brave intent 
to organize passion of human will 
through exercise of self-control in law 
when I patrol the market streets all day 
while Pandora cans peaches in glass jars. 

Lyre Of Twisted Truth

Lyre Of Twisted Truth
© Surazeus
2026 09 12

Time stretches rubber thoughts of innocence 
outsized with laughter beyond moon affect 
right forth through flapping door of framework wings 
that function by handbook of hybrid keys 
extreme at giant face of final fame 
too trapped by hope to execute escape. 

No normal legend outlines optioned facts 
pending last payment to my credit card 
replaced by process for remote control 
against routine of royal providence 
though we respond with software update dings 
that reassemble statements we submit. 

Unknown regret for glow of midnight moon 
transforms my cozy house to cold warehouse 
at howls of vintage records cracked by lust 
where wooden workers reconstruct my dreams 
concerned with torture nameless ghosts endure, 
too young to meet their soulmate by the sea. 

Reborn as avatar to play brave king 
now certified to notarize my heart 
by beautiful catalyst sparking flight 
that clarifies why death always wins out, 
I stare confused at mirror of my face 
that shows I am sad demon who steals light. 

Wingless I should float on fear-frosted road 
between midnight and dawn on Christmas Eve 
past silent houses where pines flash with lights 
though we paint lintels with blood of the lamb 
and roll tight in mezuzah spell of fate 
that prophesies my reign as global king. 

Stars sparkle over lush Seattle hills 
where I walk streets at midnight to reveal 
electric ghost of my immortal genes 
that spreads angelic wings of shocked surprise, 
and sing hymns praising Phoebus for his gift 
when he brings light to warm our frozen world. 

I wrench from deep sepulcher of my heart 
demonic soul of my ancestral genes 
to comprehend fierce spirit of my soul 
that urges me to play forbidden role 
as Mercury with lyre of twisted truth 
though I am cursed to wander signless roads. 

Revealed respect for glow of midnight moon 
transforms my frail body to lithe werewolf 
so I run laughing dark suburban streets 
to preach that Jesus never will return 
since soul of Phoebus powers my progress 
ascending Hill of Skulls with Book of Dreams. 

Swirls Of Emotional Dust

Swirls Of Emotional Dust
© Surazeus
2026 09 12

Songs of joy writhe from deep inside my body 
so I sit by cracked window on the world 
to watch strange people all around the Earth 
play out the tragic fate of their vain lives 
for we are swirls of emotional dust 
sparkling with energy we think is God. 

Millions of people spend so many hours 
intently focused on writing their thoughts 
to mold amorphous swirls of energy 
in concrete stories that capture weird truth 
published in books on vast library shelves 
which record visions of dissolving minds. 

Garbage trucks of time dump discarded books 
written by millions of people with love 
into enormous mountains of lost tales 
where frantic wind of millennial change 
flutters pages of words with mockery 
that scatters our thoughts into hurricanes. 

While our bodies seethe with new unsung songs 
that batter our souls with ethereal breath, 
we cling to fragile pole of ardent faith 
to protect each other from storm of wrath 
till all our books are scattered into space 
where they transform to eyeless butterflies. 

When bright illusions of our sparkling world 
disintegrate to swirls of wordless books, 
those struggles we cling to with desperate hands 
disperse as crackling leaves to molded masks, 
which mirror face of every living soul, 
that leaves us surprised on the ocean shore. 

Our sorrows fall away as veil of fear 
so we stand stripped of naked agony 
beneath the sheltering sky of mindless clouds 
where no grim thunder god of bitter rage 
hurls storms that smash our cities into ruins 
so we float on clear water of the lake. 

With wounded heart filled full from fuel of rage 
I gun fierce engine of my laughing brain 
to sing with sharp mercurial voice of hope 
that channels writhing demon of my heart 
so I transform to angel without wings 
who ballets blithely on telephone poles. 

At sharp aroma of fresh orange trees 
I rise unresurrected from my book 
to stroll with casual grace of fake success 
through teeming crowds of people who search close 
for secret treasure of the wounded heart 
so they can know the song that maps their mind. 

Cracked Mirror Of The State

Cracked Mirror Of The State
© Surazeus
2026 09 12

She drives across country on signless road 
past numberless houses with broken masks 
through unnaturally calm weather of fear 
to ask impatient clouds of everywhere 
where she can find the house of singing ghosts 
who understand assignment of the hour. 

She never finds the house where she feels safe 
so she builds home beside the factory 
where children of the corn build radios 
that channel voice of god to lonely farms 
by crafting bones of angels into frames 
that form calm haven for her wounded heart. 

She stands in open door of voiceless hope 
to watch for strangers on the dusty road 
who bring no treasures from the hungry land 
they took from tower of the golden calf 
that screams in horror at the thunder cloud 
so we can read books till the crack of dawn. 

She sells unpackaged sorrow in glass jars 
with pickled peaches from the Tree of Lies 
but never bothers to explain the curse 
encoded by blind prophet in blood verse 
which analyzes economic games 
played by the banker with conceptual names. 

She hides her sorrow for the nameless dead 
in brave epistle to the editor 
who hangs her letter on the muddy wall 
to monitor harvest through currency 
exchanged by people in the market stall 
who pray most fervently for secret wealth. 

She never asks the children of the stone 
why they are weeping on the telephone 
while staring in cracked mirror of the state 
with plan to outwit Death despite her fate 
of getting trapped by fame in movie roles 
that were not listed in her book of goals. 

She sells the flashlight of the fallen god 
to proud devil who runs for president 
so he can translate what the river sings 
about our new plan for spiritual growth 
by breaking free from social comfort zone 
through motivation of heart-woken zeal. 

She tries to convince me with bitter grin 
that bliss is sister of my mental pain 
so I pause on the road to anywhere 
and swerve with volta of the psychic turn 
to readjust my social attitude 
in tune with prayers for angry solitude. 

Ocean Of Her Words

Ocean Of Her Words
© Surazeus
2026 09 11

The youthfully ancient face of my mother 
is the face of the land where I have dwelled 
millions of years in valley of her heart 
while climbing high to mountain of her head 
because her eyes are the moon and the sun 
and her mouth is the ocean of her words. 

With numberless children of fire-burned homes 
I walk along endless road of her legs 
and pluck ripe fruit from long trees of her arms 
while following wide river of her tears 
which nurtures bold wheat blooming from her breast 
till we swim deep in ocean of her words. 

Some people stay in the land of their birth 
one hundred thousand years of solitude, 
building homes on ruins of their homes, 
because our mother is face of the land 
that smiles with thunder and frowns with sunlight 
to hide their dreams from ocean of her words. 

Some people walk the signless road of hope 
far east to find where the bright sun is born, 
then west to find where the drowning sun dies, 
across the land from sea to shining sea 
through orchards of fruit and waste lands of thirst 
to sail across vast ocean of her words. 

In some lives I live alone in the woods 
where I invent language from songs of birds, 
and other lives I gather gangs of men 
in armies which I use to build empires, 
but always I have children, then I die, 
that sink downward in ocean of her words. 

In this life I am the wandering jester 
who maps whole history of humanity 
in epic tales of curious adventure 
to conjure virtual model of our world, 
casting spells of dreams in the Metaverse 
that shimmers runes in ocean of her words. 

Rain drenches ruins of my childhood home 
that vanishes in restless wind of nevertime 
so I build new home by the River Styx 
then play the Lyre of Mercury and sing 
confounding riddles of the antihero 
who leads lost souls to ocean of her words. 

My mother is always alive in me 
because she is the land that nurtures me, 
so I dance wild with innocent desire 
to transcend sorrow with pure ecstasy 
through shocking joy of psalm about how death 
dissolves my soul in ocean of her words. 

Fate Laughs At Vanity

Fate Laughs At Vanity
© Surazeus
2026 09 11

Because Fate laughs at vanity of man, 
who dares assert false privilege of strength 
to live beyond assessment of despair, 
I sit on grass beneath the singing tree 
to contemplate why hungry men will fight 
to kill grim rivals in harsh game of power. 

Therefore I laugh at vanity of Fate 
that dares constrain atomic shells of light 
by narrow scope of mental attitude 
that urges our half-blind souls to assert 
concept of free will as pure divine spark 
by which we choose to swerve with random hope. 

I choose my fate within space-time confines 
by how I readjust trajectory 
of forward motion when I manage speed 
through misdirection of psychic intent 
in ways that seem predetermined by state 
of my propensity to play my part. 

If I am programmed by proclivity, 
through disposition designed by my genes, 
to analyze and act in certain ways, 
I wonder if I could control my fate 
since my mind is inclined by preset rules 
to make choices I think are my free will. 

My brain is programmed by experiences 
that my three billion ancestors performed 
with just enough wit to generate life 
so I am product of each choice they made 
as we evolved four hundred million years, 
transforming from fish to deluded god. 

Since I am programmed to behave my way 
through sharp analysis of measured faith, 
based on attention to present milieu 
forming habitat of my current state, 
each choice I seem to assert through free will 
is one I would have made at any rate. 

Each swerve of my courageous will to power 
was programmed by ancestral nerve to act 
in quick response to dangers, as observed, 
so I continue psychic legacy 
of my ancestors to adjust my route 
in harmony with tides of natural change. 

Since Fate will laugh at casual vanity 
that fuels assertion of my free-will choice, 
I laugh in tune with mockery to vibe 
conceptual vision of reality 
so I avoid annihilating death 
just long enough to generate new life. 

Window On The World

Window On The World
© Surazeus
2026 09 11

Because my heart is window on the world, 
I gaze from tower of ancestral souls 
based on lives of three billion human beings 
whose intense survival experiences 
program how my brain perceives the world dream 
that guides my journey to Heaven through Hell. 

Commissioned by guiding star of my heart, 
embodied by wise Ishtar as my Muse, 
to play role of Phosphorus Lucifer, 
I hold high Lamp of Liberty with faith 
to highlight my own private way of life 
around obstacles of selfish desire. 

Though I meet Child Roland on signless road 
who searches for dark Tower of Despair, 
I search for my own Tower of Delight 
where brave Rapunzel, with star-sparkling eyes, 
plays Harp of David as she sings sweet psalms 
to heal wounded hearts of all wanderers. 

I climb Purgatory Mountain of hope 
with courage to transform state of my soul 
from hungry ape to angel who maintains 
strict discipline of self-control through law, 
but ghosts of failure haunt my secret way, 
revealing pitfalls of death I avoid. 

Because my brain is window on the world, 
I gaze beyond shadows of transient forms 
in Cave of Illusions to comprehend 
essential design of eternal ideas 
that provide pattern for matter to form 
organic bodies of chemical flow. 

With Light of Ishtar shining in my heart, 
which emanates from vision of her love 
for all creatures awake in dream of Earth, 
I traverse complex landscape of world myth 
to find Wonderland of shared value systems 
for framework of Astarianity. 

Ascending steps up Ziggurat of Ur 
with reverent awe for vision of the world 
that Ishtar conjures in model of truth, 
I join her feast in hall of cultural heroes 
where she sings tales that recount deeds of souls 
who fail or succeed to wake God in their hearts. 

These lyric songs of psychometric verse, 
which I compose as psychic formulas, 
frame vision of my mind from memories 
as window on the world of changing forms 
when I analyze its physical state 
so I generate life before I die. 

Dream Cave of Hecate

Dream Cave of Hecate
© Surazeus
2026 09 10

Though I wander crazy maze of lost hopes 
too many years from sea to shining sea, 
singing out of tune about wounded hearts 
that batter wings against cage of desire, 
I find strange demon of love in my heart 
that wakes me in dream cave of Hecate. 

Dark shadow of guilt in pit of despair 
twists my heart with agony of hope 
that spurs me to resist with eager heart 
calm acceptance of oppression from greed, 
so I writhe in wild Dionysian dance 
that wakes me in dream cave of Hecate. 

Driven mad by anguish of searing pain, 
inflicted by the gang of laughing thieves 
who tortured me with dreams of paradise, 
then stole accumulated wealth of work, 
I leap with joy and twirl beyond despair 
that wakes me in dream cave of Hecate. 

Cheated by the rich man with fake contract 
who funded my farm, but stole it in court, 
then chained to slave for him for twenty years, 
beaten by the wife who tricked me with love, 
I fly free when lightning strike breaks my fear 
that wakes me in dream cave of Hecate. 

Returning from harsh wilderness of pain 
after training in martial arts for revenge, 
I break through gate that protects my own farm 
and fight one hundred minions of his greed, 
then smile with demon of truth in my heart 
that wakes me in dream cave of Hecate. 

To reclaim garden my fathers designed, 
and tend Tree of Justice heavy with fruit, 
nourished by water well my own hands dug, 
then sit in chair of judgement I once built, 
I wrestle demon of rage in my heart 
that wakes me in dream cave of Hecate. 

Terror twists face of the haughty rich man 
who cheated me with legal tricks of greed, 
so, offering thanks for tending my rich farm 
while I sought truth in waste land of regret, 
I marry his proud daughter as my queen 
that wakes me in dream cave of Hecate. 

Twelve sons who spring from seed of my bold faith 
expand empire of our fruit-blooming farms, 
and hundred grandsons worship me as god, 
so with sweet joy of courage born of pain 
I meditate under tree of blind gods 
that wakes me in dream cave of Hecate. 

Persona Mask Of Strength

Persona Mask Of Strength
© Surazeus
2026 09 10

When he unfastens his soul from the world 
while snatching apples from telephone poles, 
then pretends to be the angel-winged bird 
that never migrates when the empire falls, 
Zachariah decides to prophesy 
how storms of truth sweep all tyrants away. 

When Kwan Yin alights on the rocky shore 
and shows him how the sun unwinds false time 
with psychic laughter that reprograms myths, 
Zachariah dips his hands in swirling waves 
and lifts the writhing dragon of his heart 
high enough for her to bless his huge eyes. 

When Death emerges from dawn-red sunbeams 
with flock of souls on wounded wings of faith, 
and visits preachers grasping book of myths 
to steal the polished masks of pride they wear, 
Zachariah recalls weird voice of Yah 
that vibrates through our bodies as tense songs. 

When airplanes crash in twin towers of wealth 
as thunderbolts Yah hurls to bring down pride, 
Fate wakes our spirits from dream of world peace 
and tells us we must understand true love, 
so Kwan Yin and Zachariah hold hands 
then fly as angels in the sun-bright sky. 

When random tornado of social change 
erases his farm from river vale of hope, 
and deconstructs the family home he built 
from memories of their struggles to survive, 
Zachariah dives in the shallow pool, 
then emerges when war storm dissipates. 

When Kwan Yin strolls along the boulevard, 
giving peaches to every passerby 
with gentle blessing of her generous love, 
Pluto blocks her way, envious of her grace, 
then stabs her in the heart with jealous rage, 
so she kisses Zachariah as she dies. 

When he removes persona mask of strength 
to breathe ethereal wisdom of fruit trees, 
while Kwan Yin paints new vision of world peace 
as portraits displayed in Museum of Fate, 
Zachariah rides white horse of concern 
to bring justice to victims of abuse. 

When he strums guitar by the Tree of Life, 
and sings about knowledge gods make us buy 
with suffering our bodies must endure, 
Zachariah sings that the Spark of God 
glows bright in heart of every conscious soul 
who ever lives in all the universe. 

Rapt By Psychic Light

Rapt By Psychic Light
© Surazeus
2026 09 10

Rapt by psychic light of our spinning Earth,  
I dream forever sorrow of mankind 
awake in darkness of the silent moon 
who always seems to know just how I feel 
when I project my spirit at her mask 
which I wear to play angel of high noon. 

Though we build safe illusions of our faith 
from bones of devils we defeat with love 
in homes that play as temples of our tales, 
time crushes all our dreams to swirls of dust 
when angels bomb our hopes with selfish greed 
while I am rapt by psychic light of fate. 

Though air I breathe from ancient wind of hope 
appears to animate with intense love 
my fragile body made of flesh on bones, 
my mind is rapt by psychic light of fear 
that motivates my quest to transcend rage, 
and map Hell with courage of Zephyrus. 

Stuck on the beach of soul-tormenting wind, 
where Ovidius records our tragedies, 
I gaze at oceans sloshing mountain slopes, 
heart rapt by psychic light of comedy, 
when Odysseus gives me used bag of wind 
which bold Aeolus gave him with sly wink. 

While I collect cracked skulls of long-dead gods 
from cave of illusions with diamond eyes, 
rapt by psychic light of national pride, 
I find Endymion sleeping in moonlight 
on rock of faith that Lucifer will use 
as cornerstone for new religious creed. 

Before the burning bush of wounded hearts, 
rapt by psychic light of angels with swords, 
I breastfeed daughter of star-fallen god 
whose laughter conjures storms of social change 
that sweep away oppressive gangs of thieves 
which frees world lands for brave democracy. 

Through luminous drift of false memory, 
Zephyrus comes to garden of dead trees 
to spark their souls awake with warming wind 
so apples bloom from fractured tears of snow, 
but, when I call his name with haunted voice, 
he weeps, heart rapt by psychic light of death. 

Rapt by psychic light of eternal love 
that gleams with timeless Lamp of Liberty, 
I teach Endymion how to map the world 
so we can know where we are in the dark 
when we reach out our hands of honest faith, 
transformed by knowledge that we all will die. 

Ungod Of Ten Billion Eyes

Ungod Of Ten Billion Eyes
© Surazeus
2026 09 09

I wonder how to explain with calm faith 
to my ancestors awake in my mind, 
who prayed so fervently up to the sky, 
that there was no one up there in the stars 
strumming harps in crystal halls on the clouds, 
nor did Ungod do anything to help. 

I feel intensity of their hard faith 
as they knelt by the river of dark tears 
among the rustling leaves on starry nights 
and gazed up at the sky with fervent hope, 
while moonlight glowed bright in their faithful eyes, 
and prayed for help to overcome their fears. 

I see in startling vision of my heart 
their three billion faces glowing moon-white 
as they knelt scattered in ten thousand towns 
over six thousand years since Adam prayed 
with Eve for wisdom to comprehend truth 
and understand strange nature of our world. 

For so many long restless centuries, 
while Earth spun slowly among shining stars, 
my ancestors gazed up at the sky 
and asked the Faceless Spirit of all things 
for help deciding how they should behave, 
then chose to create and to not destroy. 

Though they asked Ungod of ten billion eyes, 
whose spirit they felt glowing everywhere, 
endless questions about how to live life, 
they always found the answer in their hearts 
through application of logical code 
when they analyzed effects of each cause. 

Sharing wisdom they learned from bitter loss 
in proverbs that explain how actions cause 
effects to flow in consequence of change, 
they set foundation for our social law 
condensed in statement all agree is good 
that we do what we will, if we harm none. 

Though my ancestors prayed hard to the sky, 
seeking wisdom from Spirit of the Light, 
they always found deep inside their own hearts 
clear answers for how to perform their role 
so our actions create good things to grow 
as we help each other survive this life. 

Though I know now no conscious God of light 
glows from all atoms spinning in the void, 
I exercise logical function of prayer 
to analyze each moment of my quest 
so I generate life with my soulmate 
in our children who live after our death. 

Wings Of Perpetual Respect

Wings Of Perpetual Respect
© Surazeus
2026 09 09

When my first home transforms into the crow 
which flies on wings of perpetual respect 
across the blind sea of forgotten dreams 
that my ancestors left in empty rooms, 
I model each new family home I build 
to mimic stage of home my mother crafts. 

Lured by illusion of the Promised Land, 
that shimmers on horizon of false fate, 
I sail forever over restless seas 
where eyeless demons of primal desire 
lurk in the darkness of my hungry heart 
to block my progress toward lost paradise. 

As Lonely Jester with new Holy Book, 
which I preach to blind people building homes 
on river shores from sea to shining sea, 
I erase grand idols of long-dead gods 
to clear space for newcomers to lush vales 
who must rebuild homes their fathers designed. 

Each time the crow-winged ghost of my first home 
lands by the singing river of true faith, 
I gather words as flowers from lush fields 
to prove this world of bitter suffering 
remains more beautiful because of death 
that limits our time on this spinning globe. 

Trapped by nostalgia for the mundane past, 
that each person remembers differently 
as their own situation comedy, 
I search for secret treasures of your hearts 
that gleam with private memories of pain 
transformed to pleasure by bleak hour of song. 

Though angels deconstruct my childhood home 
to measure limits of my learning goals, 
defined by scattered puzzle of weird truth 
which I assemble with blueprint of myth, 
I build expanding palace to contain 
ghost of every ancestor in my genes. 

Because my temporary soul of light 
animates Zero Body with my name, 
I tell each stranger I randomly meet 
my name is Hyacinthus, new sun god 
born from terrific hills of Nevertime, 
but they ask if I have apples to sell. 

Reborn as Lucifer from Cave of Doom, 
I bear long-lost Lamp of Diogenes 
to prove my duties secure our world state 
against decay of arrogance and greed 
corrupting my childhood home with despair, 
therefore I burn it down and walk away. 

Long Road Of My Heart

Long Road Of My Heart
© Surazeus
2026 09 09

Though long road of my heart leads me to you, 
forever winding around obstacles 
across bleak landscape of lonely desire, 
I will not stop in any paradise, 
nor linger in lush garden of sweet hope, 
till I arrive at door of your calm faith. 

With trembling hand of persistent intent, 
Daphne writes verses of stark sentiment 
with quill from angel feather of despair, 
inscribing blood of devils on wood tablet 
while bitter rain of sharp ice cuts her cheek, 
streaked with bright tears of spectral innocence. 

Clutching tablet of her romantic song 
with supreme voltage of enduring faith, 
Daphne struggles to ascend mountain trail 
past trees of vital witness to her crime 
transcending arrogance of loyal love 
with pregnant prayer to find haven of hope. 

Assertive progress of her slow ascent 
across unmeasured vector of her heart 
inspires each step of volatile concern 
despite excessive magnitude of failure 
through slight displacement of velocity 
projecting force of honest ardency. 

Since long road of my heart guides me to you 
with fragile light of passion in your eyes 
that clears space beyond tangled bitterness, 
I strive with potent energy of faith 
to churn acceleration toward my goal 
though mindless nature blocks my urgent way. 

Collapsing from exhaustion of respect 
at constant blast of cold indifference, 
Daphne stumbles into fraught reference 
of disconcerting wisdom to lie prone 
on muddy path of limitless regret, 
paralyzed by agony for success. 

When Phoebus emerges from cave of dreams 
after terrible thunderstorm dissolves 
to haughty breezes rustling laurel tees, 
he finds young woman with long tangled hair 
still clutching tablet of romantic verse, 
but stiff from desertion of her faint soul. 

Reading verses written with devil blood 
that express emotion of sweet desire 
to bind their hearts matrimonial vows, 
Phoebus cradles Daphne in trembling arms, 
hoping tears of love will resurrect her, 
then wreaths his brow with laurels of respect. 

Real Raven Boy

Real Raven Boy
© Surazeus
2026 09 08

Leaning over drawing board of her heart, 
Eunah concentrates focus of her eyes 
to draw conceptual framework of her mind 
in image of young woman with Star Soul 
who glides with fragile grace of wordless fear 
through swirling chaos of big city life. 

Presenting printout of her new webtoon 
to bearded boss behind cluttered oak desk, 
Eunah transforms into delicate finch 
that flutters wings of nervous hopefulness 
while he considers storyline with frown 
that twists her heart small as the fractured seed. 

Riding crowded bus over midnight bridge 
across glass abyss of purple despair, 
Eunah stares at endless rows of tall towers 
where thousands of small faceless windows gleam, 
and wonders about all those human beings 
who live and die beyond scope of her heart. 

Curling on the couch in blanket of faith 
while sipping hot chocolate from the black cup, 
Eunah mumbles with tense anxiety 
that now she has to draw whole episodes 
every week before the Friday night deadline, 
then beams at payment in her bank account. 

Observing swirl of people on the streets 
for inspiration for new episodes, 
Eunah calculates how assertive cause 
of individual will people express 
conspires with fate to compose taut events 
where they perform consequence of desire. 

Surprised by appearance of the weird boy 
prancing wild so tattered coat flaps as wings, 
Eunah conspires to capture spirit flare 
of his unique way with new character 
who sets heart of her anxious heroine 
at ease with carefree play of calm insight. 

Blushing at attention of loyal fans 
who love hot romance of her characters, 
Eunah reads new chapter of her webtoon 
in bookstore crowded with hushed listeners 
who gasp with pleasure when her Raven Boy 
sings psalm that shows he understands her heart. 

Signing books for hundreds of eager fans 
who rave about her vivid characters, 
Eunah looks up to see real raven boy 
in tattered coat who inspired her male lead, 
whose eyes perceive deep sorrow of her heart, 
so she smiles and asks for his secret name. 

Sibyl Visits War Zones

Sibyl Visits War Zones
© Surazeus
2026 09 08

Through reports in documentary voice 
by which I register brutal events 
when men battle men to control the land, 
I unspeak true lies about the regime 
rising from heart of darkness to enforce 
divine laws of their cloud-based thunder god. 

Airplanes that angels fly among the clouds 
obey command of God to bomb our homes 
with thunderbolt as missile forged from steel 
on mission to secure with law of fear 
global hegemon of our empire creed 
that we bring freedom to poor lands of slaves. 

When Sibyl wearing mask of providence 
confronts uncertain place in game of thrones, 
which prophets dare assert with riddled verse 
through inexhaustible faith in the truth, 
King Midas aims toy gun straight at her head 
and whispers pow, then snickers, blind with fear. 

While Sibyl walks in field of severed ears 
that hear commands of tyrants without curse, 
she chants with arduous intensity 
polished proverbs from ancient holy book 
that Tutankhamen wrote with trembling hand 
to sweep streets of the city maze with prayers. 

When Sibyl visits war zones of the world, 
with camera to document harsh crimes 
of Eden Angels armed with flaming swords, 
she tries to record with cute fairy tales 
suffering of the people in mountain towns 
who hold burnt photographs of faceless ghosts. 

Translucent language of the wounded heart 
expresses tales of witness in bookstores 
to raise awareness of fascists regimes 
that trample rights of people in the street 
with hope to catalyze action through faith 
that justice will prevail through code of fate. 

Amid smoking ruins of bombed-out towns, 
where children gather tattered photographs 
from mangled hands of zombies in the rubble, 
brave Sibyl documents harsh tyranny 
that captures barbarism of cruel men 
who dwell in mansions built from bones of farmers. 

Extracting stone of ennui from her brain, 
with hands stained gold from blood of fallen gods, 
fierce Sybil builds grand palace of concern 
to house scriptorium of the Jester Seer 
who throws fractured mask of authority 
before locked doors of cathedrals, and laughs. 

Alive On The Nowhere Road

Alive On The Nowhere Road
© Surazeus
2026 09 08

One day at a time on the Nowhere Road 
I follow my heart to the end of fear, 
but find myself back where I first began 
somewhere in the middle of the world maze 
where people without faces make new masks 
to hide immortal god-soul of their genes. 

I try to find one secret tale to tell 
that illustrates vanity of it all 
as cosmic myth that explains why we love 
though we suffer indignity of pain 
that crushes us to nothingness at death, 
but indifferent nature mocks my attempts. 

Because there is no conscious afterlife, 
nor resurrection of the soul from death, 
all cases of injustice we endure 
will never be righted in turn of time 
for all organic creatures of warm flesh 
with dreaming brains will crumble into dust. 

We are Achilles, Job, and Lear gone mad 
with grief at painful loss of those we love 
that leaves us wandering on the river shore, 
lashed by indifferent storms of mute despair, 
to howl with wordless agony at truth 
that fate kills us with equal randomness. 

The daily news of tragic suffering 
through unjust death the innocent endure 
becomes one endless Metamorphoses 
that Ovid sings of bodies changing shapes 
from vibrant humans to spiritless stones, 
or writhing trees, or birds that shriek at us. 

Once I read their tales of shocking death, 
that twists my heart with discathartic rage, 
their ghosts haunt me along my winding road, 
so I carve their names and faces in masks 
on every tree on mountain of their skulls 
till our swelling sun incinerates Earth. 

I hear voice of Isaiah, that rings clear 
from temple of truth on the hill of skulls, 
denounce crimes of the rich and powerful 
while I transcribe his prophecies in verse 
so records of injustice outlast kings 
whose bodies rot beside people they kill. 

Shocked I am alive on the Nowhere Road, 
I search for you in global maze of myths 
so I can perceive and know your true self 
that blooms frail as bright flower from the Earth 
to celebrate strange beauty of your being 
before we all vanish while others bloom.