Honest Turbulence Of Love © Surazeus 2026 03 23 Thus I shall borrow voices of the birds to open blossoms of oblative trees through dedicated sacrifice of hope, yet fragile faces flash in silent glow with patient darkness of incessant growth, awake with honest turbulence of love. Too fast to penetrate obsessive gloom with soft insistence of supple beach sand, my heart expands beyond aggressive state in bid to design structured rule of life when I follow footsteps of the sad saint who prays for salvation from mute stones. She almost finds the secret book I wrote while browsing vast library of lost souls, but she turns startled at brief flash of light refracting my ghost in large wall of glass that still sequesters angels in small rooms with mission to translate weird songs of clouds. She never understands with broken words why people turn away from suffering because we savor pain of destiny required to feature subtle glow of fame, cloaked with brave humility of trust along the opportunity runway. Trapped by stultifying moral constructs, dressed with reasonable prejudice of law, he analyzes moral rectitude inherent in legends of social heroes designed to inspire mental fortitude new generations require to succeed. Born as visibility strategist, engaged in marketing of tragic tales, I amplify your vision of this world with professional process of distress through entangled string of superlatives which highlights grand achievement of your art. Real flowers of popular piety bloom through fractured floor of the empty church where faceless people confess strange desires that wake beautiful monsters in their hearts, so they hold hands and sing hymn of regret for stealing apples from the Tree of Knowledge. She chokes while attempting to speak her truth against convention of psychotic rules, till raven of refusal with blood wings emerges from her mouth with hungry laugh to prove our society is humane despite migration dynamics of faith.
Monday, March 23, 2026
Honest Turbulence Of Love
Draft Of Cosmetic Code
Draft Of Cosmetic Code © Surazeus 2026 03 23 When Death decides to implement coy schemes concerning how we humans express dreams, I run with hope along computed track to find with clear objective plan soul crack that lets divine light of active respect luminate world I measure with transect. Concerned my heart may twist to compromise authentic valance of collegiate spies, I diagram draft of cosmetic code designed as function of genetic road that spans duration of eternal play essential to depuzzle our God Way. Mutation of my orchestrated brain redevelops paradigm of thought gain through partnership of honest bravery near optimal to cancel slavery contrary to ownership of each soul who dutifully plays their chosen role. Fraught ordinance of mental sacrifice distracts revenue from semantic price we pay shareholders of sufficient fear based on transcription of unbiased gear we shift to transmit versatile icons which install empty glory on bleak lawns. Acquired composite of faith deficits, submitted for awards by hypocrites, defines mask of our graphic interface constructed from creeds in our database that calculates wealth with cute cryptograms embodied by spritely play of fierce lambs. No quiz adapted from snake alphabets rewards my hard study with carcanets when I debug commercial formulas that entertain the poor in cinemas before deployment to the twilight zone, ensuring world reign of Hyperion. Dynamic equity expanding scope, we factor when accounting for false hope, inspires my heart as psychic engineer to defeat the fabulous puppeteer through bitter contest of erotic jest when I return home from my long grail quest. Enclosing chaos of reality in psychic radius of tomography, I simplify strict scholarship of truth with objective observation of Ruth who guards cordial key of my treasury so we rebuild our world each century.
Sunday, March 22, 2026
Project Ideal Character
Project Ideal Character © Surazeus 2026 03 22 Stuck in restless theater of my heart, where shadow puppet of my younger self performs perverse versions of my god soul, I shield my inner demon with bright mask designed to project ideal character commissioned to succeed in game of truth. Amused by careless antics of my youth, I build cathedral from sorrow of hope to shelter ghosts of my ancestral brains buried under apple trees of respect that transform rotten corpse of my framed soul to wildflowers thrumming in soft spring breeze. Yet somehow I always seem to survive relentless waves of psychedelic change converting anguish of obsessed despair to passion of insouciant urgency by sealing fracture of my heart with gold to embrace imperfection of this flesh. Resilient with true standard of insight through natural cycle of birth, growth, decay, and artistic repair, I reprogram trauma as engineered process of growth which values flaws as treasure of respect to weave my soul in matrix of world mind. Forbidden forest of star-shining lake lures forensic explorer of my heart on strict excursion in extractive maze to format artificial model globe compiled from various tales of human quest in licensed landscape of inherent fear. Ten thousand people flee their burning church when planes of solidarity shoot bombs that uncreate religious creeds of rage though I present justice in frame of laws based on eclectic theory of radiance which loops our bodies in matrix of souls. Framed by ring structure of connected minds, my carbon atom in taut benzene ring contrives trigonal plane in psychic bond that stores conceptual memories of desire which programs how my brain perceives the world while I rotate on crystal wings of fate. Awake in atrium of my tensile soul, I strum conceptual lyre of Mercury and sing uncanny spell of sudden truth with vibrant voice of stringent honesty so I fly from theater of my heart when our world view collapses into lies.
Chosen One Of Fate
Chosen One Of Fate © Surazeus 2026 03 22 Since I am not the chosen one of fate, destined to wander wherever I choose, I lounge with leisure by the rolling stone that has not rolled in eighty years or more, soft tufts of moss thick pillows for my head, and savor joy of life till I am dead. If I perform the chosen one of fate, wearing gold mask of Jupiter I stole from ancient gallery of long-dead gods, I might win election as president, so I can found universal health care with money Midas stole from working hands. Fortune deceives the chosen one of fate by tricking me to believe I deserve wealth my ancestors gained from hands of slaves, so I follow Siddhartha out the door to meditate on mountain peak of truth till I release desire to own it all. Though I replace the chosen one of fate when the nine-tailed fox switches my timeline, I achieve global fame as novelist who chronicles quest of the common soul to overcome suffering with brave heart, transformed into the Superman of faith. When I become the chosen one of fate, trapped by obsessive passion to be real, I stand on stage of dancing skeletons to sing in theater of the absurd satires depicting tyrants who steal light and strut around as if they own the world. Assistant to the chosen one of fate, I type their stories on keyboard to code dramatic plays for television screens depicting humble heroes of our land who fight for justice and freedom for all who dwell in fertile land of Zathamar. Averse to play the chosen one of fate, when Galadriel rises from Lake of Dreams and gives me shining sword Excalibur with mission to guard vales of Avalon, I kneel and pledge my heart to her command then judge at Gates of Eden day and night. Because I am the chosen one of fate in glorious pageant of my daydream play, I run through maze of myths past fallen gods to guard the Tree of Knowledge from cruel thieves who bulldoze Garden of Eden to build shopping mall and church with vast parking lots.
Encryption Children Trade
Encryption Children Trade © Surazeus 2026 03 22 Delicate virtue of happiness sparks terrible nightmares of exploding books that rearrange principles of world views based on patterns of arrogant respect for social activism of adventurists who debug curious deficits of thought. Blessed cultural currency of fake gems emit enhanced encryption children trade through loyal interface from deviance which should involve legacy activists still infectious with impertinent zeal from minds stuck in parallel paradigms. Productive oracles now prevalent regulate unpublished riddles of faith deprescribed by bland physicians of chance with relevant protocols twisted strange despite publicity of total war in tactics of synthetic tournaments. Unstable genius in huge doorless house stares through kaleidoscope of sympathy at taxable farms where arrogant clowns play shrieking violins of tolerance in tune with progressive creeds gods promote out of proportion to primitive games. Printable plans of procedural tricks conceal prominent oversight of men elected by naive constituents contrary to influence parents ply by landscaping conflated injuries against involvement of sly journalists. Brave luxury enjoyed by marketers, embedded in corporate markets of slaves, extracts extreme dynamics devils prove confusing through denial of dominance, so I deploy atomic catalogs in careful play to calculate dire fate. Aurora waves of vibrant arguments alternate through analogy analysis and frantic algebra to measure bounds controlling chemicals of pulsing brains despite enhancement of eroding truths essential to equity of bold gain. Tearing his college diploma to shreds, young doctor destined to endure despair engineers new career path to world fame, then runs across busy highway of hope to achieve excellence of honest work though he falls from tower of energy.
How Flowers Like To Feel
How Flowers Like To Feel © Surazeus 2026 03 22 If sunlight knows how flowers like to feel, and raindrops understand my heart of steel, then I remember how my mother dreams delightful laughter of snow-sparkling streams when firefly fairies lead me through dark mist to willow where my love and I first kissed. Since spring-dawn light knows how to cheer my heart without my resorting to the star chart, I step through wreckage of this modern world to find lost code book of the cosmic herald, but all I find in tattered photographs are memories of people working on crafts. I must remember what my eyes perceive enshrined in altars where the living grieve for friends and family killed in endless wars whose ghostly shadows haunt unopened doors as if our hearts are birds in burning trees whose songs record official killing sprees. Should I vow justice to end tyranny, encoding courage in strange litany sung by the blind girl by square fountain pool whose voice enchants hearts of both seer and fool, I might rouse spirits of my citizens to welcome wandering homeless denizens. Or clocks in trunks of elms might rewind fate with gears that open wide the jeweled gate allowing refugees from wars of greed to enter Heaven with classified creed based on binary benefits of truth, endorsing fusion of messiah sleuth. Through hybrid functions dream machines provide pilgrims discover hills where they abide by mapping franchise where the hunter dwells with mission to mortgage conceptual wells for faithful warriors of the mountain ghost who sends his daughter to play social host. Unlicensed sellers in new market stalls display masks of gods swiped from temple walls for children of the corn to wear with pride yet wrestle angels on the mountain side because our faces vanish in gold glow refracted through blinding mirror of snow. With moral payment to the palace guard my mind previews vision in fractured shard that twirls from shattered suddenness of death though I fly with radar brain of deep breath over bright rainbow to the Promised Land where Zeus rules world empire from Samarkand.
Saturday, March 21, 2026
Enough To Prove My Worth
Enough To Prove My Worth © Surazeus 2026 03 21 Leaves of books whisper in soft river breeze where oak leaves flutter lightly on my chest, unpatterned spread of limbs rewinding time at random turn of bright arrogant clouds concerned that I am not earning my pay enough to prove my worth in Kingdom Come. Rain patters lightly on still-open book in silver drops that smudge names of the dead and smear their tales of sorrow on blank page concerned that fate is based random chance because I am programmed to make each choice that defines galvanized laughter of death. Dazzled by sudden light in web of limbs, I try to befriend strangers in the park whose clean shoes are plastered with rain-wet leaves but they would give me crystal lithium to register days of straight unsure rain with relentless observation of eyes. Digressive immediacy, rendered moot by accurate diagnosis of love, crescendos erratic patterns contrived by daily notes about strange incidents clever readers glean from clandestine clues when we dismantle truths we long hold dear. Oblique performance of flirtatious care, disguised by shy alertness off lit stage, reveals vulnerable feelings we might share, though disclosures conceal beauty of life that vex my heart with irrational calm based on discipline of ironic faith. To reconcile sensible tone of spells, carved by bloody blades on trunks of old oaks, I record painful distinction of change between obsessive states of mindless fear, when my father presses foot on my chest to drown me in gushing river of change. Banalities of everyday routines invite reality to fool my heart with grand delusions of poisonous fame, so I employ false narrative account as vehicle for confession that I transmute despair into beautiful jokes. Dining out together on Friday night in glass cathedral of excessive faith, we articulate strange exquisite truth about how rain and leaves will lightly fall on soft uncovered skin of psychic soul with unforced flow of wordless dreams we share.
Spider Aliens From Jupiter
Spider Aliens From Jupiter © Surazeus 2026 03 21 Death stares at me each dawn and asks me why angels wear faces of humans as masks if I lounge on the river stone of truth and contemplate strange mystery of this life but then forget my name and where I live so I sit on gold throne and rule the world. Death glares at me from mirror of despair though I pay for insurance every month so I type novels on pages of glass that shatter on busy commercial street because church bells never ring anymore yet I scatter pennies in parking lots. Death laughs at me when I wear business suit and drive around suburban neighborhoods so I sell lonely housewives magic flute that calls the Phoenix of domestic peace from wet sponge of the television brain who shrieks about the next apocalypse. Death tricks me to believe with fervent faith huge spider aliens from Jupiter in unidentified flying objects appear at midnight above the huge stadium where demon hunters sing of loyalty and weave matrix of music from our dreams. Death guides me on the signless road of fate across the waste land of my innocence where someone walks beside me in the heat who seems to know how bridges disconnect companions in fight for democracy who wander in vast maze of city streets. Death drives me every morning at sunrise to work in weird library without doors where skulls of fools sing arcane prophecies which I transcribe on bright computer screen to chronicle how empires rise and fall at selfish whims of men who think they know. Death sneers at me when I recite with grace obscene proverbs about marriage of minds Eve plucks from Tree of Knowledge to defend doctoral dissertation of her research on nature of evil cruel men perform in vain attempt to evade curse of fame. Death asks me to marry her with sweet smile so we climb ziggurat of thirteen planes where Ishtar binds our hands with chain of love that links our hearts with passionate discourse when we unite all nations of the world in one religion based on Will to Power.
Fluke Of Blind Fate
Fluke Of Blind Fate © Surazeus 2026 03 21 When I learn with startled alacrity that I carry the sea within my heart, I open small box of treasures I keep to find immensity of timeless truth expand scope of every cell in my flesh tensile with strangeness of who I might be. Still I accept maimed happiness of fate that gives me fruit instead of chocolate bars when I seek gifts of food from open doors with stubborn expectation that blind chance will lead me to lush garden of delight from where I lie trapped in tangled desire. Though every night of lightless gloom is long, as sense of time inflates eternal glow beyond all bounds of measurable constraint, I know bright light of morning will appear as slow flash piercing gloom with ache of trust that I still breathe soft river breeze of faith. If I keep falling into future frames against stricken dilation of regret, I might find, hidden in trap of my heart, expansive wings of fierce vitality by twisting sideways from preordained fate to avoid imminent crash of concern. Dazed in cavern of grief with fractured eyes, I ask deaf Nature for reward of grace despite vain attempts to resist the fall when I condense assertion of mute will in sparkling sphere of force inside my heart by which I seek salvation of the sea. Released from grim enclosure of my mind, my heart leaps high through competitive zone with stark passion of undetermined chase in flowing fashion of unfolding fate, vibrant with frequent breath that resonates with startled sense that I am still alive. Pure tone of slow ecstatic hum reveals glimmer of self-knowledge that emanates from trembling truancy of free resource when I attend communal feast of friends to join coalition of stubborn hope since time can be dangerous to sudden truth. Weird randomness in changing tides of wealth leaves me alive another day on Earth in spite of near collisions with blind Death who mocks my luck avoiding nothingness since Fame strikes me as sterilizing curse which I avoid by sheer fluke of blind fate.
Star Eyes Of Ostara
Star Eyes Of Ostara © Surazeus 2026 03 21 Ostara sings with bright voice of sunlight that gleams on water of the forest lake which sparks my heart awake with joy of Spring so leaves sprout frail on limbs of sleeping trees, transforming darkness of cold winter gloom to apples swelling thick with energy. Through dimming haze of long cold winter days star eyes of Ostara pierce veil of fear to cast clear rays of hope on lifeless woods that flash awake with soul-reviving green, so we rise from slight shelter of frail faith to dance with graceful joy on river shores. Ostara calls my surreptitious name with covert melody of urgent sight that sparks beat of my eager heart with life, so I spring tall from unofficial crypt and run toward dawn sun gleaming on hill peak where she spreads arms with esoteric oath. Engaged with vibrant passion of desire that fuels assurance of my reborn vow, I contract ardent loyalty to life through guarantee of brave clandestine bond to join her covenant with holy light in pledge to create beauty based on truth. Ostara glows with timeless vibrancy that emanates from zeal of solar love to channel vigor of assertive verve reviving trees and creatures of vast woods with brave vivacity of honest trust, empowered by vitality of hope. Hearts woven strong by camaraderie with harmony of bold benevolence, we gather in lush grove of blooming trees through fellowship of cordial empathy to share nutritious food our hands prepare in generous feast of psychic amity. Ostara stands on mound of breezy joy, where mother of our nation lies in rest, and raises holy grail of jeweled faith to sing enchanting hymn of earnest hope so we all celebrate return of Spring then drink sweet juice of innocent respect. Enthroned at table of communal feast on tree-lined kurgan of our thriving tribe, Ostara hosts our congregated clans assembled in sacred garden of ghosts that fills our hearts with passion of new life as we drive wagons to explore the world.
Friday, March 20, 2026
Quest In The Nether Lands
Quest In The Nether Lands © Surazeus 2026 03 20 Attenuated by faith in the sky, I scatter pages of my holy book on narrow trail in forest of sad ghosts so I can find my way to Wonderland but fairies fold them into paper planes and float my memories on the wordless breeze. Sponsored by oldest woman in the world, who dwells in secretive Grand Canyon cave, I paint complex murals on parking lots that show whole history of the human race fighting each other mounds of dirt while I eat apples on library steps. Tall skinny women wearing slim sheath dresses pose on marble steps of the temple porch while photographers capture their lithe grace to celebrate graduation from college as their eyes glitter with hope for the future in heart of the empire that rules the world. Kneeling in dust by dry fountain of bones in central plaza of the crowded city, the Weeping Woman cradles her dead son shot by police sent by the bitter tyrant as he trembles in fear on golden throne while wolves circle his grand palace of mirrors. I remember life of every ancestor whose passion to survive this hostile world generates my body with urgent faith that we can overcome hunger of death to live another hundred million years on frail globe spinning in the starry void. Old mother sitting in dark house at midnight peers out the window at the parking lot where she thinks she sees her son in dark hood, so she opens front door and shouts is name, but faceless ghost of his absence retreats and vanishes in delusion of faith. Religion is ligament of life tales we share around campfire at dawn of time to depict our quest in the Nether Lands to find the hidden treasure of the dragon that highlights exploits of the social hero, dead mortal we worship as tribal god. Caressing my cheek with her callused hand, from working forty years in fields of crops, the Weeping Woman gazes in my eyes and beams into cathedral of my heart enduring passion for justice and truth, so I cradle pure heart of love she gives.
Bonfires Of Liberty
Bonfires Of Liberty © Surazeus 2026 03 20 Thoughtlessly amused at how river stones float in the sky above houses and cars, Katya hides under the living room desk when drones drop bombs on people at the school getting fresh water and food for the night, who dance around bonfires of liberty. Running outside to see the school on fire, Katya watches Jesus and Mazda fight for world domination on hill of skulls while children watch videos of baby goats hopping about the yard with playful fun, and dance around bonfires of liberty. Tugging at door of the silver sedan, Katya helps the woman with mangled arm stumble away before her car explodes with her son, his wife, and kids stuck inside, while teenagers at music festivals still dance around bonfires of liberty. Cradling head of the woman on her lap, Katya tips bottle of water with care, but the woman coughs up blood on her dress, and asks her if she has met someone yet, because her nephews work hard on the farm to dance around bonfires of liberty. Helplessly singing sad hymn of salvation to guide her spirit to the Other World, Katya smooths hair of the woman with grace, and trembles as she caresses her face, then covers her body with tattered coat to dance around bonfires of liberty. Stumbling dazed on the road past bombed-out homes, Katya approaches Church of Saint Askold, kneels before statue of Mother Mariya, and prays for souls of people killed by bombs who must wander confused in streets of smoke to dance around bonfires of liberty. Wail of baby boy thirsty for fresh milk startles Katya from reverie of prayer, so she cradles him in her trembling arms and hums as he suckles milk from her heart, and their eyes become the sky and the sea that dance around bonfires of liberty. Wandering along the Dnipro River shore, Katya explains to Ilya with hawk eyes secret riddles about meaning of trees while drones zip above canopy of leaves unable to spot shadows of their souls which dance around bonfires of liberty.
Thursday, March 19, 2026
Phoebus Is Folksy Clown
Phoebus Is Folksy Clown © Surazeus 2026 03 19 Because each repeated fall of the sun feels so much like the final end of time, I growl with animal passion in fun at sweet enchantment of the breeze-kissed chime when I lounge in ruins of Carthage town to confess my Phoebus is folksy clown. Though my days eat away eternity, my hours have no need to pardon their loss for I have joined Jester Fraternity that Lucilius presides as first boss since Juvenalis taught me how to praise Lucifer with mask of the golden glaze. I still wring my bread from war-bloodied stones and fence my garden with bones of the dead whose tales I carve with runes on dragon bones till clever Athenus springs from my head, so I pluck fruit that grows from tree of light my ancestor planted in moonless night. Seed of the Serpent beams inside my heart light of salvation on wild ocean shore where I build glass house on rock of Astarte, star goddess who teaches me timeless lore so I construct boats and tend fields of wheat, yet sing with nightingale and parakeet. I think it strange that when I kiss the skull of Pluto on computer screen of fate, I learn no secret of the laughing bull who feeds my spirit to the fires of fame till serpents resurrect my ghost to life when I drown attempting to save my wife. Olympus is my home Death cannot bomb for gleaming dome of mirror-flashing masks protects my family in vast crystal tomb where miracles are kept safe in wine flasks that leave me blind to virtue of weird truth encoded in riddles by our dream sleuth. Heartbroken by secret I never share, that Lethe oozes from my brittle tongue, I meet Cynthia on the heavenly stair to give her puzzle from which angels spring, so we stroll on the apple-sweetened shore past fruitful garden to the grocery store. Though honest Herakles struts on world stage to brag the Roman Empire still stands strong, I ask strange phantoms of conceptual rage if they will come when cathedral bells ring, but Charon waits on shore of River Styx while Dionysus teaches me his tricks.
Signs Of The Times
Signs Of The Times © Surazeus 2026 03 19 Thrashing in terror of his inner ghoul, King Midas hurtles thunderbolts of Zeus to blast safe temple of Persepolis where Anahita shelters girls from hate till Mithra is gored by the frantic bull, when Sibyl chronicles signs of the times. Weeping that his daughter Atusa dies after missile blasts school where she reads poems, Kaveh the Blacksmith leads people of Arya to defend their homeland against drunk Thor who stumbles around with Hammer of War, when Sibyl chronicles signs of the times. Startled from slumber in his lion cave by missiles blasting gardens into wastelands, Zurvan stands on smoking Mount Damavand and hurls missiles back at den of Midas who begs for help to fight his futile war, when Sibyl chronicles signs of the times. Shocked that Zeus tries to steal oil wells of Persia, Achilles rallies Myrmidons from farms and leads them to defend Thermopylae, but falls asleep when Circe gives him wine while sirens sing about his global fame, when Sibyl chronicles signs of the times. Strumming Lyre of Mercury with grief, Phoebus laments fall of America that Gabriel and Icarus get shot by Goliath and Grendel wearing masks who lock them in vast concentration camp, when Sibyl chronicles signs of the times. After Galahad finds the sacred key to unlock Castle of Maidens with faith, he frees Minerva from dark prison cell who bears bright Torch of Liberty to write names of war refugees in Book of Truth, when Sibyl chronicles signs of the times. Appointed by Minerva with gold wand, Arthur and Hamlet lead army of farmers to arrest King Midas, gone mad with power, who runs with Nebuchadnezzar and Lear through storm of delusions to escape Justice, when Sibyl chronicles signs of the times. Howling in rage at nations of the world that no one accepts him as King of Earth, King Midas wanders lost in maze of myths, stuck in hell loop of his arrogant greed, till Pandora locks him in Box of Fate, when Sibyl chronicles signs of the times.
Wednesday, March 18, 2026
Raucous Laughter Of Delight
Raucous Laughter Of Delight © Surazeus 2026 03 18 While reading tragic tale of Oedipus, composed by Cinaethon in epic verse with elegant curved script Cadmus designed, I hear someone in dim library gloom erupt with raucous laughter of delight that startles me from horror of despair. Tiptoeing through labyrinth of tall book shelves that winds deep in library hall of stone, past statues of gods that stare in my soul, I search for the mysterious personage whose joyful laughter echoes in dim gloom, trembling as I approach demon-carved door. When I enter Finis Africae room, hidden at core of vast library maze, I see tall man in white robe stained with blood, bearded face and brown eyes lit by stark light that beams from cracked lamp of Diogenes, contorted by laughter of frantic glee. Shocked at sight of the tall elegant man laughing with delight as he slaps his knee, I wonder what elicits merriment from solemn Jesus, son of Jupiter, who doubles over with dizzy delight, then wipes tears away as he slaps my arm. Picking book up off the ground that he dropped, I see it is the comic play named Clouds that snarky Aristophanes composed about that weird snub-nosed philosopher named Socrates who played ignorant fool to deflate egos of arrogant men. Staring at Jesus, bemused by his joy that seems in excess to the silly play, I listen as he explains why he laughs at how that wise fool fools wise men so well because his clumsy frame hides divine soul who teaches men to question their beliefs. Leaning close, Jesus whispers in loud voice that Jorge de Burgos, that grim buzzkill, believes laughter ruins authority the Church must exercise over all men based on fear of damnation in hot Hell, but laughter is the source of love in life. Amused to see the son of Jupiter laughing with delight at the comic play, I join him in fruit garden by the pool where he plays lyre of Mercury and sings lyrics of Sappho that celebrate love between friends while kids dance with graceful joy.
Ghost Of The Wind
Ghost Of The Wind © Surazeus 2026 03 18 The strange way my thoughts fall into the pool, transforming into pink petals of hope that float away on swirls of nonchalance, startles my heart with beauty of this world that shimmers bright for no reason at all, because these feelings are silly and cute. Though none of my thoughts are original, having been felt in equal depth of passion by billions of humans who lived before me, I savor these feelings with intense faith because I experience them at this hour as I gaze entranced by the fragile flower. Soft grass glowing green with warm rays of light emanating from one immortal sun, tree leaves whispering in soft river breeze, birds chirping surreal language of desire as they flutter wings with innocent hope, all conspire to wake feelings in my heart. I keep those feelings hidden in my heart where they gently fan butterfly wings through weird intensity of obvious fear that shadow of death will spring at my soul, so I look around at the sudden world, conscious with eternal suspense of thought. Breathing deep with shock of scopeless insight, I stand with sudden clumsiness of fear as if my heart is sparked by deep alarm, but I float suspended in changeless thought and wonder what startles me to observe demonic silence that knows I am real. White apparition on the distant hill alerts my anxious sense of mute surprise, so I peer with intention to perceive nature of that beast that stares down at me, and gasp with joy to see the graceful horse who often gallops with ghost of the wind. Yanking apple from basket of friendship, which I plucked as gift for my ghostly friend, I hold it out with tense arm of respect, and almost think the sky-dancer will come accept it from my heart, but flash of light briefly blinds me, and the wild horse is gone. Sudden gust of wind scatters apple blooms of pinkish disappointment in my hair, so I eat the apple with grumpy sigh at sudden tilting of the unknown world, then I wander back to my secret cave where I lie in moonlight and dream of flight.
Tuesday, March 17, 2026
House Of Broken Toys
House Of Broken Toys © Surazeus 2026 03 17 When Jesus calls me on the telephone to borrow my car I stole from his dad so he can take Venus to his beach house, I climb to the mountain peak of world fame and toss Holy Book in the burning bush, yet find my mask in house of broken toys. When Dionysus meets me in glass church to confess his wish to become a monk devoted to prayers of self-sacrifice, I play electric guitar on lit stage and howl mad wolf-song of the fallen god, yet find my heart in house of broken toys. When Apollo hires me to map dire fate depicting networks of utilities that provide services to every house, I fly airplane to Plutonian hills and bomb the stately dome of Xanadu, yet find my soul in house of broken toys. When Jupiter requests I paint his tower with murals that depict scenes of his life as chief psychologist of Kingdom Come, I take Rapunzel home to Avalon where we live in quaint cottage by the lake, yet find my mind in house of broken toys. When Odin grills burgers in parking lots to feed five thousand refugees from war who are eager to watch the Super Bowl, I play violin in the concert hall while Minerva and Phoebus sing the blues, yet find my brain in house of broken toys. When Jehovah steals industrial plans to build new computer-powered starship so he can rule the world from Samarkand, I compose novels of angst-humored man with old typewriter on shifting sand dunes, yet find my name in house of broken toys. When Achilles dresses as Judy Garland and sings Over the Rainbow with brave voice that inspires new generation of clowns, I repair broken lyre of Mercury displayed inside velvet-lined case of glass, yet find my skull in house of broken toys. When Lucifer campaigns around the world to win our votes as President of Earth in quest for secret of the Holy Grail, I construct new radio from bird bones to chat with Melusine in Oregon, yet find my ghost in house of broken toys.
Mindless Business Of Days
Mindless Business Of Days © Surazeus 2026 03 17 Now that spring is approaching with regret, we organize mindless business of days with porous unconcern for getting sleep, adrift on horizon of innocence because seasons of providence we flee retaliate for spilled secrets of love in terrible incidents we ignore. If Death comes home with us before our hearts are ready to breathe dust of obstacles, we could hide in alcove of singing books without desire for what matters the most, because I just want to hear your soft voice explain why the sky pretends to be blue. Alone with my madness stuck in third gear, I study the flower with countless eyes that tells me love must change every new day with gradual expansion of honest scope, because bees sing about color of trust, authentic with chronic engine of hope. I cannot repeat puzzles of my dream over and over of variable thoughts trapped in books nobody will ever read, disguised as the turtle of confidence that boldly traverses waste land of faith, so I drape my heart in knowledge of self. Atrocious fanfare of enchanting trees ignores how I stumble over dead books with marvelous body of poisoned words, so I observe torments of wounded hearts wrapped in laughter of children who know how to restore discord of fervent faith. Elegant madness of panicky rout perfumes austerity of lonely souls who trade their consecrated memories for horror that twists faces of the loved to seek gratification through free will by choosing to glorify undead gods. I want to ask for shelter from the ghost who wanders mutely with the noonday crowd to find the mansion where no one else lives, yet nothing happens till the clock explodes with betrayal of language time invents, so we speak with one voice of surprised love. I build the mansion where we will now live, nursing wounded dignity of soft pain, so we can find the pattern God will break when we sleepwalk together back to Eden if we should watch the geyser dance with grace as we regurgitate hymns of salvation.
Monday, March 16, 2026
Soul Of Star-Eyed Phyllis
Soul Of Star-Eyed Phyllis © Surazeus 2026 03 16 Though I vow to never allow my mind, governed by strict logic of intellect, to be seduced by sweet feminine charms that emanate from soul of star-eyed Phyllis, I find I play horse to her Aphrodite as Aristotle who obeys her will. Eager to please Goddess of Liberty, whose gentle voice commands kings to obey, I let her bridle my aggressive passion, and rein my ambition to rule the world with solemn duty to maintain our home as secure haven for her to raise our children. Harnessed to wagon of productive hope, I focus attention of energy to increase wealth garnished from heart of Earth when I channel material of desire through constructive factory of respect, designing machines that Beauty requires. Inspired by Beauty embodied as Woman, who transforms spirit of my urgent faith to mold new body of organic flesh that houses immortal spirit of genes in new child whose face replicates my mind, I fulfill requests My Love asks of me. Though I roam mountain forests in moonlight as wolf-furred woodwose hunting river vales, wise Phyllis captures me with flashing eyes, and with sweet kiss through passionate embrace converts my Enkidu to Gilgamesh, domesticating werewolf of my heart. Her bright Ishtarian demeanor translates my Grendel demon to Beowulf angel, morphing me from Azrael to Gabriel, for her sweet smile of amorous respect civilizes savage ghoul of my heart from dragon-slayer to philosopher. Though I wear mask of divine discipline, concealing demon dance of Dionysus with rational cantillation of Apollo, that primitive ape programming my mind urges my quest to generate more life, obedient to will of woman I love. Emotional battery in my heart powers robotic habits of my body through survival instinct of anxious rage, which I restrain with logical project, so I confirm my soul with self-control through liberty in law of my free will.
Pierrot And Persephone
Pierrot And Persephone © Surazeus 2026 03 16 I steal idol of God when I realize Persephone falls in love with Pierrot since she adjudicates how angels fly by driving cars on highways of desire through thunderstorm of global social change, so she gives him pomegranate to eat. While he wanders metropolitan maze from sea to shining sea of broken dreams, Pierrot gives mask to every soul he meets so they can wear his face with honest pride, then he grows another face from despair that mirrors how each faceless human feels. While she administers prison of fear, preparing hell-loop punishment of pain for each soul lost in delusions of hope, Persephone waits on soft leather couch, sipping wine and watching comedy shows, for Pierrot to find his way to her heart. When we gather for the Spring Festival in Temple of Artemis by Dream Lake, Persephone brings food to every table so we feast and share our stories with strangers, then listen with reverence of solemn faith when Pierrot plays the lyre of Mercury. Just as Pierrot, with lyre of Mercury he found in cave of illusions in Hades, arrives at jeweled gates of paradise, Petrus judges he may not enter Heaven because he cares for all souls lost in time, so faceless clown of the moon weeps in silence. Each drop of water sloshing on this globe of ours that spins in starless void of hope has animated billions of conscious souls through four hundred million years of evolution, so tear of Pierrot that stains Book of Fate rewrites false judgement of Petrus with blood. Ascending Stairway to Heaven with faith, Pierrot enters Temple of Artemis and kneels before Persephone at dawn to give her mask he wove from dreams of love, so they attend grand ball of shining gods, and dance while Phoebus directs the orchestra. Amazed with joy, we love to watch unfold romance of Pierrot and Persephone as symbol for state of our world today, Mute Weeper in love with Guardian of Ghosts who win awards for suffering they endure with names we write in fairy tales of faith.
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