People Kill No More

People Kill No More
© Surazeus
2023 12 31

At the end of the world I take a walk 
past all the famous museums and churches 
where angels listen to the devil talk 
about the mountain where the dragon perches 
to watch our world transform through revolution 
based on global justice-based constitution. 

Each time tyrannical fascists and kings 
attempt to enforce laws of thought-control 
their power is shattered when Moon Girl sings 
with strange voice of beauty that stirs the soul 
so we rise up against their state of terror 
to imitate the demon in the mirror. 

The Earth keeps spinning around the bright sun, 
indifferent to survival of us humans 
who fight each other with the laughing gun 
based on false interpretations of omens 
painted with our blood on cathedral walls 
after midnight when the bright angel falls. 

Since fractured nations of our spinning world 
fight over whose founding father is god, 
they will be surprised when the cosmic herald 
appears from Heaven to reveal the fraud 
who preaches fascist doctrines as the truth 
till we oppose them with Tellurian Faith. 

Awake with passion to measure the Why, 
I mold ideal forms of existing thoughts 
from visions of things that bloom in my eye 
which I encode in riddles for robots 
to dream beauty of Earth humans record 
in library books where lost souls are stored. 

Since we are stuck in vast labyrinth of myths, 
we gather on the river shore at dusk 
to dance in star-bright ring of monoliths 
around young girl who wears gold Ishtar mask, 
which channels psychic energy of nations 
three steps to Heaven on global foundations. 

Because the butterfly who laughs with me 
leads me on signless road past global war, 
I wait in garden of the sacred tree 
in vain hope that people kill no more, 
but secrets I keep hidden in my heart 
bleed into riddles of the weird star chart. 

Through wild unspinning of the fateful wheel, 
refracting cosmic wisdom of the Earth, 
I investigate strange tales that are real 
in vain attempt to calculate their worth, 
for I am nothing more than flame of light 
that glows in vastness of eternal night. 

Refugees From Civil Wars

Refugees From Civil Wars
© Surazeus
2023 12 30

They trudge across bleak desert of despair, 
thousands of refugees from civil wars, 
who flee away from mountain jungle towns 
where gangs of thieves demand they pay or die, 
to crowd before walls to the Promised Land 
where the blind prophet speaks words of the snake. 

Alone on mountain of the singing skull 
their leader stands before the burning bush 
and asks for guidance to the Promised Land, 
but no god answers from the writhing flames 
so he returns without tablets of law, 
eager to storm high walls of paradise. 

Horn of the locomotive cries with hope 
across the waste land of the doorless house 
to guide lost refugees from civil wars 
across the nowhere land of singing sands 
to wait before locked gates of paradise 
for golden tickets to the Promised Land. 

Unspeakable light of the desert sands 
calls to me with voice of the faceless ghost, 
so I stand mute in door of my safe home 
to watch wind flutter leaves in ancient oaks 
while millions of people around the world 
wander signless roads to the Promised Land. 

Though naked inner soul of my sad heart 
refuses to pray to deaf god of justice 
to grant salvation to lost refugees 
who flee civil wars between gangs of thieves, 
I welcome them to fertile Promised Land 
where my ancestors came for Liberty. 

When dead words rattle in the smoking guns 
in hands of frightened men who fight to live, 
their children wake from nightmare of the bombs 
to play in rubble of the Promised Land 
destroyed by tanks with angels of the Lord 
who dance on graves that no one knows about. 

Gathered before locked gates of paradise, 
where angels with flaming swords of contempt 
deny them entry to the Promised Land, 
thousands of refugees from civil wars 
sing holy hymns to celebrate the birth 
of our messiah sleuth beneath the star. 

When I hitchhike across America 
to play guitar and sing as cosmic herald, 
I see wild spirit of Liberty glow 
in eyes of refugees from civil wars 
who crash golden gates to the Promised Land 
where angels plan to exploit them for wealth. 

Garden Of Singing Skulls

Garden Of Singing Skulls
© Surazeus
2023 12 29

Because there are so many ways to go 
outward from still point of the universe, 
I stand without moving in vain attempt 
to stop relentless flow of changing time, 
but I feel energy of ancient stars 
pulse through taut beating of my hungry heart. 

The world around me that always seems still 
begins to move in tiny increments 
expressed in subtle motions I perceive 
with sharp attention of cautious respect 
which accumulate the longer I watch, 
till I can see changes grow by degrees. 

I see saplings sprout into sprawling trees, 
springs swell rivers into vast ocean swirls, 
cracked eggs release birds that soar among clouds, 
small quadrupeds bulge into huge adults, 
and fish evolve into lithe wingless angels 
who mistakenly believe they are gods. 

Tempted to engage in dramatic scenes 
where opposing groups battle for control 
over who gets to eat fruit of the tree, 
I restrain intense passion of my heart 
to wait with patience of the mountain moon 
till they destroy themselves in civil war. 

With the sneering serpent in Tree of Life 
I quietly observe how human souls 
interact through aggressive games of chance 
in never-ending war to rule the world 
so I can navigate currents of change, 
still alive in garden of singing skulls. 

When primal monster of my serpent brain, 
released by agony of suffering pain, 
possesses me with fierce demonic force, 
I realign flash of atomic course 
to fight the tyrant who enslaves our souls 
so every person can play their own roles. 

Each step I assert on long signless road 
to project my will at the virtual world 
radiates consequences of effect 
from visionary cause of my intent 
to reframe narrative of human life 
so moral of our tale features true love. 

Because I choose one single way to go 
on bold romantic quest to evade death, 
I progress forward on strict path of right 
with focus on goal to generate life 
through attention of love that correlates 
mutual connection of our fertile hearts. 

Perfect Messiness Of Love

Perfect Messiness Of Love
© Surazeus
2023 12 29

Terrible beauty of the morning light 
designs the world my eyes disdain to see 
till timeless glow of atoms in the void 
reveal eternal nothingness of truth, 
so I gaze deep in mirror of my mind, 
surprised at perfect messiness I find. 

Kneeling with reverent awe in dew-wet grass 
before red-brick wall of my crooked house, 
I caress intricate shape of the tree leaf 
to study mystery of the universe 
so I can understand how beams of light 
compose structures of perfect messiness. 

The butterfly, with wings orange as the sun 
and round as tree leaves curving into points, 
flutters ruthless motion of gentle hope 
to search for nectar of flowers and fruit, 
then lands on red rind of the watermelon 
to feast on perfect messiness of faith. 

Across broad misty meadow by the lake, 
shadowed by clouds veiling the red dawn sun, 
I see three horses graze behind barbed fence, 
and long to run with them on rolling hills 
to explore the strange world beyond the sky 
reflected in our perfect messiness. 

Millions of cars glide along asphalt roads 
as people drive from homes of forlorn faith 
to perform their role in our social game 
that operates the food-production machine 
which we designed the past ten thousand years 
to manage perfect messiness of hunger. 

People assemble in company groups, 
lead by wise seer with vision of their goal, 
to help each other fight against despair 
with noble purpose guiding how they act 
as each attempts to dominate the rest, 
urged on by perfect messiness of fear. 

When nations fight world wars for thought control 
to prove god of their religion is right, 
I walk into bleak waste land of nowhere 
to find essential nature of my soul 
embodied by the wolf with moon-bright eyes 
who respects perfect messiness of death. 

Homesick for company of my soulmate, 
I journey far across the barren hills 
through gloomy forests of obsessive trees, 
till I arrive at front door of my home 
where she prepares food I bring from the hunt, 
safe in the perfect messiness of love. 

Fragile Flame Of Hope

Fragile Flame Of Hope
© Surazeus
2023 12 28

Celestial music of harmonious flow 
calls me through shadows of old tangled woods, 
so I float down steep hill of anguished breath 
to hunker down safe on the river shore 
where apparition of the water god 
blinds my eyes with beautiful rays of light. 

Seven angelic swans spread white wings wide 
and leap from writhing passion of the stream 
to glide far from dark terror of the woods, 
so I spread my arms and pretend to fly 
so I can escape dark shadow of death, 
but my heavy heart binds me to the ground. 

With sudden flutter of eccentric wind 
that weaves my heart in whorl of silver clouds 
I see aggressive motion of intent 
in surge of force behind visible forms 
which animates performance of all souls 
so I perceive weird world behind the world. 

Dramatic stillness of the flowing stream 
reveals vast presence of the starless void 
beneath lithe surface of the watery eye 
who seems to watch me with one timeless thought 
till light wakes bright inside my buzzing brain 
so I become reflection of the moon. 

When one angelic swan with moon-white wings 
returns from formless realm beyond the sky, 
and lands on stillness of the river flow, 
I know she brings me treasure from faint stars 
in apple that falls in my open hand, 
so I eat the sun contained in its juice. 

At the darkest hour of relentless night 
I reach my hand down in cold river flow 
to grasp white diamond gleaming with moonlight 
so I can touch thought of eternity 
that pierces my heart with ache of desire 
to stay awake beyond my nothingness. 

But I float deep in gloom of dreamless sleep 
as nothing more than fragile flame of hope 
that gleams brief hour with passion of mute love 
between vast stretches of eternity 
when I am not, before and after life, 
so I forget the name I never bear. 

Awake from timeless death of river flow 
I sing in tune with melody of rain 
that teaches me how I must live each day, 
because I am alive, and not yet dead, 
though I sink blind in nothingness of sleep, 
so I float in the cool river and grin. 

Freedom

Freedom
© Surazeus
2023 12 28

Freedom is doing what you will, as long 
as you would cause no harm to other people. 

Freedom is not exercising your strength 
to exploit, abuse, and harm other people. 

Freedom is application of wise choices 
through love to create rather than destroy. 

Child In The Rubble

Child In The Rubble
© Surazeus
2023 12 27

At midnight on the dark clear winter night 
the light of glory from the eye of truth 
beams through rubble of the bomb-blasted town 
to luminate face of the new-born child 
who gazes at world of suffering and pain 
with heart that heals through attention of love. 

The young child born in the rubble of war 
will rise up high on Phoenix wings of hope 
to organize chaos of human fear 
through universal law of equal rights 
enforcing justice of earned liberty 
when she unites all religions in one. 

Though arrogant kings in towers of skulls 
preach superior strength of their nation-states 
the wise child born from rocket blast of rage 
will sustain United Nations of Earth 
to free all slaves from offices of greed 
so we live as we will if we harm none. 

Around our child in the rubble of war 
angels and demons on wings of lost faith 
protect her spirit from greed of mad kings 
who exhaust themselves in paranoid fear 
attempting in vain through harsh tyranny 
to control the minds of free human souls. 

Our child born in the rubble of despair 
wears countless masks of the Many-Faced God 
in thousands of children orphaned by hate 
who survive trauma of exploding words 
so they clear away all the broken bricks 
that fall when the wall crumbles to dust. 

When the light of glory shines on her face 
where she stands on the one-eye pyramid 
lost refugees from nations of the Earth 
gather with nothing but hope in their hearts 
around our child in the rubble of faith 
to share her vision of justice for all. 

Book Of Dragon Dreams

Book Of Dragon Dreams
© Surazeus
2023 12 27

Running forever in red freezing rain, 
as described in lost Book of Dragon Dreams, 
I chase the moon crow before she can wane 
to silver fish that swim high mountain streams 
now flushed with orange toxic chemical slime 
that poisons beauty of stark fractal time. 

Searching the South Boston Aquarium 
for demons marked in Book of Dragon Dreams, 
I find still wandering toward Elysium 
ghosts of soldiers drowned in meandering streams 
where the god Scamander laughs at their pride 
because in war there is no noble side. 

Singing in old white church on the town green, 
illustrated in Book of Dragon Dreams, 
I place ring on finger of Melusine 
to divide the world in factional teams 
who fight over whose religion is right 
before Earth is destroyed by nuclear light. 

Observing stone statue of Union Soldier, 
whose blood inks words in Book of Dragon Dreams, 
I battle Beelzebub with shepherd crozier 
in cahoots with brave social justice teams 
to block the dictator from taking power 
so I can save Rapunzel from the tower. 

Evolving from fish into motor car, 
in grades described in Book of Dragon Dreams, 
I drive too fast for fate to twist my star 
by dividing thought in ideal morphemes 
which clowns assemble in puzzle of truth 
to prophesy our world messiah sleuth. 

Defining chaos of existing forms 
through formulas in Book of Dragon Dreams, 
I measure spiral flux of lightning storms 
based on numbers as conceptual morphemes 
on which we build global democracy 
to standardize justice through liberty. 

Parking my starship on the Rainbow Bridge 
between worlds mapped in Book of Dragon Dreams, 
I search for secret garden of the witch, 
whose face mirrors weird beauty of moonbeams, 
where she paints accurate map of the world 
so I perform my role as cosmic herald. 

Waiting for old world order to dissolve, 
as predicted in Book of Dragon Dreams, 
I calculate how Mankind will evolve 
to wingless angel whose honor redeems 
millions of slaves from prison of the mind 
where statue of Nobody stands enshrined. 

Apple Of Her Heart

Apple Of Her Heart
© Surazeus
2023 12 26

When Snow White wakes in forest of my hope 
and offers me sweet apple of her heart, 
I focus attention of my desire 
on generating life before we die 
through natural blossoming of eager love 
when children sprout from vision of our words. 

I feel essential passion of my mind 
vibrate in harmony with waves of light 
that beam from dreamless core of the huge sun 
to weave my body with the Supersoul 
that ripples pool of psychic energy 
in spiral matrix of our spinning Earth. 

So I am tiny speck of conscious life 
that glows as fragile flame of aching hope 
in vast abyss of blank eternity, 
though for one brief epiphany of pride 
I fancy I am separate from it all 
as independent soul of self-made strength. 

Through self-reliant urge to transcend death 
I push against harsh elements of Nature 
with rogue attention of spontaneous will 
to assert autonomous state of faith 
that I can devise bold program of fate 
through which I forge new destiny of luck. 

Beyond blind whims of random providence, 
when I employ strict vagaries of faith, 
I engineer key plight against demise 
through capricious wiles of preordained rules 
within core machinations fate reveals 
based on vicissitude of my free will. 

I know I am part of one multiverse 
that weaves unrealized possibilities 
in this real world of chemical content 
which here exists in bounds of time and space, 
yet I assert free will of random choice 
to swerve from programmed path of obvious acts. 

Too tangled in vast web of lassitude, 
defined by choices other creatures make, 
I writhe in vain against taut cosmic fate, 
yet still I seek to choose how I will live 
in loose context of our global hive mind 
so I can create rather than destroy. 

When Snow White gives me apple of her heart, 
I choose to eat forbidden fruit of love 
from Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil 
because deceptive serpent of desire 
convinces her that we will become wise 
as gods whose bones we find inside our souls. 

Wicked World Right

Wicked World Right
© Surazeus
2023 12 26

When gray clouds shroud our world in gloom, 
and wet brown leaves on towering oaks 
hang listless far below eternity, 
small flock of deer gather in my backyard, 
glaring at me lit gold in large bay window, 
to play tense drama of their social scene. 

The young buck with four-pointed horns adjourns 
three young does behind the rotting fence 
to browse on tender leaves of apple trees, 
but charges the younger buck who escapes, 
stares at me as I photograph their game, 
then herds them across the leaf-plastered street. 

Trotting with tense caution among tall oaks, 
Cernunnos guides his does across house lawns 
who lurch and trot around reindeer and sled, 
carved from wood, when another car glides by, 
startled into bold defiance by beams 
of headlights which terrify the gloom. 

Dim light of heaven glowing through tall oaks 
fades into stark silver of timeless fear 
that waits for some faceless monster to strike, 
but silence wins by lingering in dim shadows 
without perilous despair of street lamps 
that refract divine light through sprinkling mist. 

Invisible in silver evening glow 
beyond tangled web of leafless oak limbs, 
the mellow moon hides her delicate face 
behind cold veil of mist that wets my face 
with aching sorrow of the signless road 
where nameless travelers drive somewhere else. 

I see no ghosts of refugees from wars, 
who follow Moses on cold desert roads 
to escape jungles where gangs of thieves reign, 
invade this neighborhood with hungry hope, 
so I look up at ancient towering oaks 
to see if they have found home with the crows. 

Though only flocks of deer, squirrels, and crows 
dwell in winter-wet dusk of Spiderwood, 
weird moonlight that makes this wicked world right 
illuminates large sprawling red-brick homes 
that dot wild rugged hills of ancient oaks 
where people hide from shadow of the dusk. 

Face lit by lightbulb of the secret moon, 
I gaze from glowing comfort of my home 
at faceless ghosts who wander spooky woods 
of ancient oaks with secrets they conceal, 
and feel timeless beauty of paradise 
pulse from core of this dream world I create. 

Join The Global Choir

Join The Global Choir
© Surazeus
2023 12 25

With clockless paradigm of tangled streets 
that havoc motion of demanding time 
we walk through flashing prism of weird rain 
though flowers leak from books no god designs, 
so we hide memories in weird fairy tales 
about paradise in forgotten vales. 

With savage bombs contained in music notes 
that swirl from steel piano on sand dunes 
we predicate new words from dragon eggs 
still trapped in fragile television screens, 
so we measure distance we travel now 
as grim illusion of the moon-white cow. 

With cruel lessons learned from bitter clones 
that twist our minds with new confusing facts 
we grow no wiser than thunderless clouds 
that cast green shadows on deserted plains, 
so we stare blankly at the fluttering leaves 
since we cannot see the mother who grieves. 

With solid honesty of wind-tossed hats 
that have no magic to animate ghosts 
we wait for devils to return our dreams 
long trapped in books that no one ever reads, 
so we return to kitchen of the queen 
who reveals secrets only gods have seen. 

With laughing pear trees of arrogant owls 
that divide the stars with spells in reverse 
we navigate the wilderness of skulls 
to find ethereal life that love can bring, 
so we push open glass door to the bank 
to find Jesus when the Titanic sank. 

With lonely horses on the river shore 
that teaches us glory of life is brief 
we disappear in mirror of our souls 
in gamble to become the mask of death, 
so we follow the North Star back to Hell 
where Idunna gives us drink from her well. 

With cosmic energies of psychic games 
that charge our bodies with constructive lust 
we vanish in the stories children tell 
to pass the longest dark night of the year, 
so we remember how to light the fire 
when we decide to join the global choir. 

With sense of time erupting from my eyes 
that ravages hard castle walls of kings 
we fall to Earth in weird delirium 
to garden instead of rule the empire, 
so we gather in the glass church to sing 
while Solarius forges the dream ring. 

Back To Jerusalem At Last

Back To Jerusalem At Last
© Surazeus
2023 12 25

Strange stories we tell on cold winter nights 
about blind ghosts among red flowers weeping 
reveal harsh ancient truths we would forget 
as we drink hot wine to lament life fleeting 
with wild tempestuous storms that blow away 
and leave us in sunlight as fruit trees sway. 

Sweet scent of dinner roasting in the hearth 
brings us back home inside fragile walls dreaming 
too long with numb complacency of peace 
till planes of tyranny shatter with bombing 
this prison paradise where angels show 
death approaches with gentle fall of snow. 

Since none are left to record our despair 
long after wind disperses cold ash smoking, 
we gather in hard rubble of our hopes 
to sing hymns of our savior never coming, 
as we walk backward on the signless road 
with nothing but heavy hearts for our load. 

Alone within the murderous winter blast, 
I find wind-worn statue of Odin bleeding 
tears of anger from his demonic heart 
to measure meteors from starless skies streaming 
that twist our principles with hungry angst 
in search for dark vale where we dwell ensconced. 

Through revolution of the hardy mind, 
eager to transform with the times unchanging, 
we fight harsh tyranny of castle kings 
who relinquish power of wealth unwilling, 
when engine of fate realigns our stars 
through quick replacement of horses with cars. 

Perched on cathedral wall of world empire, 
with arrogant wings of pride overreaching, 
I lunge from Heaven with demonic urge 
to challenge the general with tanks skull-crushing, 
till my world vanishes in flames of war 
when the hidden dragon begins to roar. 

When birthtown of their ancient tribal god 
is bombed to rubble by the mad king screaming, 
the new world savior is randomly born 
from humble frightened mother past redeeming, 
so crippled dragon born from nuclear blast 
shambles back to Jerusalem at last. 

Yet far away in Appalachian hills 
the half-blind prophet bard in anguish mumbling 
erases clear epiphany from truth 
which conceals grand plan of the wizard scheming 
to spread democracy to the whole world 
as holy mission of the cosmic herald. 

Book Of The Golden Rule

Book Of The Golden Rule
© Surazeus
2023 12 24

While drinking acrid wine on Christmas Eve 
to celebrate birth of some long-dead king, 
I feel my brain vibrate with the cosmic weave 
of atoms binding our world in vast ring 
where wild demonic suns of throbbing light 
sparkle in blood cells of my inner sight. 

To open gift-wrapped box of secret truth 
while sitting around tall pine by star pool 
I must rely on scripture-programmed faith 
for how I read Book of the Golden Rule 
by which I fight to defend fertile land 
with bloody sword of honor in my hand. 

They came to kill me and kidnap my bride, 
I explain to the old priest in the chapel, 
so I had to kill them to prove my pride, 
then sit by warm hearth and eat my last apple 
while I watch over my wife and young child 
who sleep at midnight, so peaceful and mild. 

While dreaming in art museum at midnight, 
among portraits of Madonna and Christ, 
I see epiphany through blaze of light 
that all those kings who reigned and sacrificed 
their lives to serve the Holy Grail with love 
are sons of Jesus in gold clouds above. 

Though Jesus himself is long dead by now, 
his descendants live in children of blood, 
mothers and sons who ride the holy cow 
as each new-born boy plays king blessed by God 
to reign over nations of Supermen 
who march to war with intention to win. 

Through bloodline of the Holy Grail Christ reigns 
with each generation of new-born sons 
who expand empire from castles of planes 
by sending soldiers to conquer with guns 
till every nation of the spinning Earth 
celebrates the night of his humble birth. 

Though I listen close on the midnight clear, 
I cannot hear that glorious song of old 
ring out across the land shrouded by fear, 
when angels on the Earth strum harps of gold 
to hail when the hidden dragon will rise 
to reign as global king beneath blue skies. 

I am no prophet bard with pen of blood 
but I can foretell birth of new world order 
that will rise from world war of storming flood 
where every last nation-confining border 
will be replaced by universal rights, 
enforced by fair laws the blind wizard writes. 

Blue Ridge Mountains

Blue Ridge Mountains
© Surazeus
2023 12 24

When Blue Ridge Mountains call my secret name 
I go walking where proud demons are lame 
after their great fall from high walls of Heaven 
so I can chat with the diamond-eyed raven 
who always seems to know just what to say 
which helps me find the less confusing way. 

If Blue Ridge Mountains erase signless roads 
so I get lost in forest of red toads 
I meditate on mushroom of the wraith 
who teaches me that the secret of faith 
lies in how I would navigate the world 
on my quest to become the cosmic herald. 

Since Blue Ridge Mountains send huge thunderheads 
to shake complacent people from soft beds 
we walk the misty trails of everywhere 
to find mother of mankind in the bear 
who interrogates the river of light 
to discover the secret of soul flight. 

Though Blue Ridge Mountains speculate why 
humans know how to talk, but not to fly, 
I walk in dark places with ghosts of gods 
who were all exposed as garrulous frauds 
always demanding we obey their laws 
or they would throw us into monstrous jaws. 

Yet Blue Ridge Mountains forget people die 
as if we are eternal as the sky 
that scatters rays of blue light at the Earth 
to wake lonely hearts with holiday mirth 
when we assemble on the river shore 
to praise transcendent truth of the soul core. 

How Blue Ridge Mountains crumble in the rain 
reveals the small cabin I built from pain 
with hives for honey bees that swarm the glade 
where headless Saint Winifreda once prayed 
for liberty to live on her own terms 
since even our souls are consumed by worms. 

Toward Blue Ridge Mountains refugees from war 
seek ancient Promised Land of Nevermore 
but find themselves lost in dark trackless woods 
where fallen demons build new neighborhoods 
to live free from old tyrant on the hill 
who claims everything his by divine will. 

So Blue Ridge Mountains laugh at vanity 
when humans fight for private property 
where they alone eat apples of the soil, 
till they all shuffle off this mortal coil 
and nothing but cracked skulls are left behind 
to clutter this planet their God designed. 

Phoenix Of Freedom

Phoenix Of Freedom
© Surazeus
2023 12 23

If I could solve the long sorite of life 
that leads me past endless puzzles of truth, 
then I would claim the redness of sunrise 
through timeless energy of secret words 
as power that inspires my heart to love, 
born from Phoenix of Freedom I respect. 

With brutal beauty of the morning light, 
which radiates from eerie dreams that can kill, 
I calculate strange fate of innocence, 
immune to complaint of primitive powers 
that reassign my pain with signs of wisdom 
so I walk barefoot over fertile ground. 

The bright sunrays that penetrate rose windows 
fail to disperse gloom of cathedral halls 
though I grope through hazy vision of faith 
to find paradise hidden in foul graveyards 
where my ancestors wait for judgment day 
that never resurrects them from mute dust. 

Pretending I am not the fugitive 
who almost drowned in the river of tears, 
I photograph serene landscapes to capture 
odd slant of light against stark hill of trees 
where children search for bones among the flowers 
while singing hymns about the fallen angel. 

Yet thin harmonious tear of my childhood 
springs from dark bosom of the dreamless Earth 
as sparkling fountain from the fractured rock 
where wingless horses and white ravens flock 
with gang of boys who swim in the cold pool 
to replay journey of Odysseus. 

Grim face of the old nameless warrior, 
that stares down from the granite cliff of fame, 
watches thousands of empires rise and fall 
as rebels fight the tyrant and his clown 
who assassinates the lonely half-blind king 
so his daughter flees to live with kind farmers. 

With ancient energy pulsing my heart 
I stay till twilight on the roadless hill 
to feel vibration of the rainbow glow 
one million years through sparkle of my bones, 
yet never morphs into wings I can use 
to fly above vast maze of living myths. 

If we allow that tyrant to ascend 
one-eyed pyramid of the new world order, 
then we are doomed to fall from civil war 
in flames of greed that will destroy our world 
from which the Phoenix of Freedom will rise 
to teach us once again how to live free. 

Wild Wings Of Hope

Wild Wings Of Hope
© Surazeus
2023 12 23

I try to give you passion of my heart 
but it flies away on wild wings of hope 
beyond formulas of our social chart 
to wander listless on steep mountain slope 
where moonlight guides my way back home to you 
through signal of the most obvious clue. 

Since you are humble and secure in faith 
as you perform your strict daily routine 
with productive passion on your safe path, 
unaware your deep beauty can be seen, 
you cannot know in your sweet honesty 
that you are always my celebrity. 

Your face appears in television glow, 
though you are hidden in your private world, 
as most important star in my love show, 
relaxed by the fire with your kitten curled 
around hollow vastness of your pure soul, 
because no one but you can play your role. 

In all my precious fantasies of us 
I see us dressed with elegance and class 
dancing slowly without romantic fuss 
beyond mirrored walls to the dew-wet grass 
where fairies and nymphs bless our sacred love 
with songs of angels in gold clouds above. 

So when you come home from hard day of work 
I bring you spiced mocha and apple pie 
so you can relax where the kittens lurk 
who pounce on you and purr with loving eye, 
then together we sing heart-aching tunes 
while midnight snowflakes transform into runes. 

The most romantic thing we do each week 
is drive with traffic to the grocery store 
where we gather ancient treasures we seek 
to illustrate the weird domestic core 
which energizes essence of our home 
composed of rites sparked by the metronome. 

Efficient routines of our daily show, 
that we design from years of trial and error, 
constrain wild chaos of chemical flow 
to nurture spirit of our psychic mirror 
so we can maximize intense desire 
that maintains life in song of the world choir. 

When I offer you passion of my heart 
you free my spirit on wild wings of hope 
so I return to home of your dream chart 
as we unite forces so we can cope 
with endless dangers when we navigate 
traps of death to construct our home on fate. 

Walk Among The Trees

Walk Among The Trees
© Surazeus
2023 12 22

Alone in shadow of the silent grove 
where spirits of my children could run free, 
I ponder concept of the flickering flame 
that casts orange eerie glow in nothingness 
to light eternity with thoughtless truth, 
so we hold hands and walk among the trees. 

The river melting in warm morning glow 
considers how the butterflies explain 
surprising beauty of blossoms that know 
why my broken heart has healed from its loss 
slow enough to wake the arrogant wind, 
since we hold hands and walk among the trees. 

With blue reflections of the fractured sky 
I laugh with clouds that christen me with rain 
as if my tingling skin contains sharp soul 
pulsing with eagerness to sprout swan wings 
because I want to fly above this world, 
yet we hold hands and walk among the trees. 

I arrange stones in circle by the lake, 
spark flame that spreads from leaves to twigs to logs, 
crush wheat with stone to flour of regret, 
mix dough from milk and eggs with angry hands, 
then bake my heart in oven of lost dreams, 
if we hold hands and walk among the trees. 

I own no land for ninety million years 
for land is nothing more than solid faith 
on which I walk to chase the swirling clouds, 
till strangers threaten me with painful death 
if I leave not the land they claim is theirs, 
so we hold hands and walk among the trees. 

My bones pulse fierce with anguish of desire 
to seek vast quiet consciousness of love, 
so I kneel down among wind-rustling reeds 
to see my face in mirror of the world, 
then name myself The Ghost Who Sees Her Face, 
since we hold hands and walk among the trees. 

I am the loneliness of falling snow 
for I would penetrate dark gloom of woods 
with sparkling light of stars in crystal flakes 
which replicates my soul in child of words 
because they will live long after I die, 
while we hold hands and walk among the trees. 

I never hear bells ring across the land 
to celebrate birth of the man who knows 
exquisite details of star filaments 
that spiral into galaxies of worlds 
where I wake from dream in zillions of brains 
when we hold hands and walk among the trees. 

Dreaming In The Earth

Dreaming In The Earth
© Surazeus
2023 12 22

Radical words blossom from roots of trees 
to organize chaos of chemicals 
in organic creatures with conscious minds 
who try to lift up the Earth without wings 
till tongues bind rage within tense curse of prayers 
so we can see the mystery with blind eyes. 

The river swirling from the mountain snow 
embraces me in stillness of her flow 
to teach me how with promise of respect 
to rein tight maelstrom of intense desire 
with elegant dance of flirtatious hope 
so stories of our mothers teach us love. 

Through endless circles of my cautious feet 
I explore strange landscape of this world 
by navigating memories of tall trees 
that shine with apples of the singing rain 
so I can float on surface of the stream 
where ghosts of dead people startle my dream. 

Entranced by petrichor of pungent faith, 
I dance with patter of raindrops on grass 
to call my mother dreaming in the Earth 
who rises up from surging waves of fear 
to laugh at thunder growling in the sky 
which teaches us to savor joy of death. 

Through silver greenness of the snowy woods 
I float toward whisper of serene despair, 
and imagine we are still holding hands 
toward shocking beauty of the silent peak 
that glimmers scarlet from old sunset fire 
which pierces my heart with wordless insight. 

If my vagabond heart leads me to you, 
long hidden in veil of faint memories, 
I bring you wood for fire in ring of stones 
that dispels bleak darkness of timeless gloom, 
for we are alone in vastness of death 
that shrouds our souls with nothingness of love. 

When snowflakes sparkle on our glowing cheeks, 
lonely as stars that glitter with moonlight, 
we suck honeysuckle from fragile vines 
till morning sunrays christen us with hope 
that we may live to see another day, 
so we hold hands and walk among the trees. 

With fleeting glance of supernatural grace 
that writhes from hollow of my anguished heart 
I reach out both arms from dark heart of Earth 
to embrace eternal light of your eyes 
that weaves our souls in bodies we create, 
millions of descendants born from our genes. 

Weird Secret Of Forever

Weird Secret Of Forever
© Surazeus
2023 12 21

Unbearable beauty of the blank sky 
hides in the dream that I may never enter, 
so I conceal flame that falls from the sun 
with special loneliness of wordless prayer 
based on our love that becomes something else, 
for sadness of my aimless heart is tender. 

Unknowable beauty of the strange sea 
directs the wind to shadow where I linger 
in shattered passion of the apple tree, 
even though eager death can wait no longer 
for me to come down from the mountain cave, 
driven forth by calculation of hunger. 

Unshakeable beauty of the star stone 
that glitters with our eyes in the cold river, 
trapped inside its flow by truth of the moon, 
teaches me the weird secret of forever, 
so I record our story with the rune, 
though nobody but me thinks it is clever. 

Unchangeable beauty of our true love 
rearranges puzzle of the high tower 
which I construct from visions of the cave 
to imitate sacred space of the bower 
where we exchange sacred pleasures of bliss 
to savor psychic energy of power. 

Unstoppable beauty of her ice heart 
reflects my small face in the cosmic mirror 
with each apple I sell from two-wheeled cart 
while children gasp at my story of terror 
confounding monarchs cursed by the star chart 
who cannot overcome religious error. 

Unfindable beauty of the cracked skull 
is found in the swamp by the blind Lightbearer 
though nobody can play his special role 
in tragic romance where the mute wayfarer 
falls in love with bold slayer of the bull, 
then gives birth to the first global explorer. 

Unwriteable beauty of the well queen 
hides in the deepest dark place of the world 
spark of light which fuels the time machine 
when I wear costume of the cosmic herald 
to play in the temple no one has seen 
except the girl with angel wings unfurled. 

Unspeakable beauty of the tree bride, 
who gazes in my soul with eyes of sorrow, 
curls roots of love in planet I designed 
that multiplies my descendants from zero 
to colonize forgotten Promised Land 
with cottage by pure river of the sparrow. 

Pageantry Of Life

Pageantry Of Life
© Surazeus
2023 12 20

I strum star-vibrating lyre of my heart 
so I can recreate the conscious glow 
of supernatural passion which expands 
my skull-bound sense of self to enclose Earth 
with all its messy currents in one whole 
that rings through harmony of life and death. 

Instead of reaching toward the distant stars 
through irritable hope to grasp at the truth, 
I lie on grass beneath the apple tree 
to feel eternal spirit of the sky 
strum the sorrow-twanging lyre of my heart 
that luminates spirits on stage of life. 

Weird mystery, that conceals in psychic code 
how all material of our universe 
sprang into being from nothingness of hope 
that flares forth from first flash of the big bang, 
animates my brain with my conscious self 
so I incarnate divine mind of God. 

Thus each organic brain that beams with light 
on every planet in the universe 
incarnates soul of God in mortal form 
so zillions of souls on zillions of worlds 
dream together across vast galaxies 
to sing the harmony of flowing change. 

Born from my mother in the swirling sea, 
egg of truth sparked to life by seed of hope, 
I learn to walk in seething ocean waves, 
then stride along the winding river shore 
to climb the highest mountain in the world 
where I reach out to touch the silent stars. 

Yet when I fall back in my wingless mind, 
feeling alone on this vast spinning globe, 
I find you standing firmly by my side, 
so I hold your hand, and I kiss your mouth, 
then we walk back down to the river shore 
where we eat apples and sing as we dance. 

Your eyes wake me from slumber of lost time 
so we embrace and dance around the tree 
while Hermes plays heart-aching tune of hope 
on the lyre he designed from turtle shell, 
sweet melodies of timeless truth that stay 
relentless tide of death for just this hour. 

We play our roles in pageantry of life 
to generate new life before we die, 
then lie down on the ancient Earth of faith 
and sink into dark stream of nevermore, 
so children who spring from love of our hearts 
may play their roles in pageantry of life. 

We Have No Wings

We Have No Wings
© Surazeus
2023 12 20

With orange-red laughter of the mindless sky 
I ponder reason for the thoughtful why 
that drives my progress in the rugged hills 
to search for apple trees by sparkling rills 
beyond heart-aching hunger of the mind 
that passion of my ancestors designed. 

You stand beside me in bright pouring rain 
to share compassion of our glowing pain 
as we transform from stones to human beings 
reluctant to accept we have no wings, 
so we must walk the Earth with breath of hope 
from careful balance on the mountain slope. 

Strange primal memories of the long ago, 
programmed by wisdom learned from wordless woe, 
frame how my present brain perceives this world 
through holy mission of the cosmic herald 
which I proclaim with flowing of the stream 
that mirrors weird patience of the sunbeam. 

I walk around truth of the mountain peak 
ten thousand times before I learn to speak 
with voice of wind that rumbles from my breast 
as I attempt to map fate of my quest 
which lures me to invent houses with doors 
containing concepts bound in language spores. 

So long before I build cities and roads 
my truth is forest ponds with singing toads 
who teach me wisdom of the faceless tree 
from which my words derive the arcane key 
which opens rotten door to castle tower 
where I first learn how to exercise power. 

Too far above the bustling market street, 
where I observe organic fertile beat 
of human hearts trapped in romantic plays 
still taking place in ever-shifting maze, 
I long for hero on the shining horse 
to liberate the world with gentle force. 

Yet no messiah flies down from the clouds 
to hover beaming over cheering crowds, 
so I manipulate lost souls with faith 
by conjuring shadow-whispers of the wraith 
till I reign over spider web of spies 
who bring me puzzle pieces of small lies. 

As dungeon master of the kingdom game, 
who reigns without cruel terror of the name, 
I watch the empire I created burn 
to ashes preserved in the silent urn 
depicting me as woman without crown 
who falls with Icarus in the sea to drown. 

Pyramid Of The Mad King

Pyramid Of The Mad King
© Surazeus
2023 12 19

The sun casts visions on page of my book 
depicting stream of scenes where I must look 
with anguished eyes at the suffering and pain 
humans stuck in history endure in vain 
to build vast empires through fascist control 
that thrive when everyone plays their strict role. 

As helmets of warriors marching in file 
flash with fires of burning homes every mile, 
they follow Ares on tall prancing horse 
who searches in vain for the divine source 
of global power that slips from frail hand 
of every mad king clutching at dry land. 

The scythe-wheeled chariot of desire rolls 
on crowded highway of lost nameless souls 
past blood-stained pyramid of the mad king 
who struts about with tattered angel wing 
he stole from Michael to become the beast 
whose heart is sacrificed for the grand feast. 

Yet Pallas steals the sword that Dido used 
when she ran in the naked streets, confused 
at why great hero with eyes blind from fate 
abandoned her outside the Pearly Gate 
to find his destiny across the sea 
in land of the brave and home of the free. 

So Child of Aphrodite on the beach 
searches for the lame prophet who can teach 
secret code of the alphabet which seals 
psychic energy through wood wagon wheels 
in order to weave tapestry of truth 
presenting life of world messiah sleuth. 

Though we ride cows on journey to the west 
through repetition of our ancient quest, 
we never find the fertile Promised Land 
where angels on flat pyramids may stand 
to guard lush paradise from immigrants 
though they are paragons of innocence. 

The serpent coiled in cypress tree of faith 
reveals origin story of the wraith 
who was young princess in gold palace hall 
painting hieroglyphs on vast history wall 
to show how Helius drove chariot of light 
in war against cruel demons of the night. 

For sweet Juturna is the bride I choose, 
that humble gardener who can read my clues 
as church bells ring across the Sabbath hour 
till she awakes in high room of the tower 
where she searches for my face in her dreams 
hidden behind time-changing mask of seems. 

Though Father Time stands on a mountain peak 
and waits for the terrified seer to speak, 
I know that time unravels webs of brains 
so conscious souls that vanish in hard rains 
may sing with poignant passion to enjoy 
opulent feasts we used to hold in Troy. 

I follow trail where my ancestors strode 
the opposite way to name every road 
that leads me back home to land of the strange 
hidden deep in Tian Shan Mountain Range 
where I first ate ripe apple of the sun 
and joined with horses on their wind-swift run. 

Grand cities of stone, shining on high hills, 
that I construct with bleeding swords and quills, 
organize lost refugees from world wars 
into priests and merchants who manage stores, 
but tyrants ruin everything we build, 
and promises of peace go unfulfilled. 

I find no secrets in old epic tales 
for every human experiment fails, 
yet we work to sustain democracies, 
against fascist greed of strong monarchies, 
that rule justice and liberty for all, 
so I cleanse my soul in the waterfall. 

Walls That Humans Build

Walls That Humans Build
© Surazeus
2023 12 19

You choose to misunderstand what I say 
because you want to refract secret truth 
to bend reality straight through your heart 
so you can feel the center of it all 
expand from static ideal state of hope 
that distorts how our minds perceive the world. 

When I accept the peach of untouched hope, 
which you offer me from dark of your home, 
I fear you will expect payment in kind, 
but I turn from trap of comfort you offer 
to walk rough road of freedom to my grave 
that waits for me somewhere in paradise. 

Yet here I pause on bright desolate coast, 
between the ice-sharp mountain range of faith 
and the shifting-sand beach of primal hope, 
to paint landscape of the world I perceive 
that maps wild rugged terrain of my heart 
with smears of color on the slab of wood. 

I cannot cartograph this world of dreams 
without depicting walls that humans build 
to parcel landscape into nation-states 
that trap teeming tribes of aggressive hope 
within surrounding walls of paradise 
that tangle frontiers inside border lines. 

I draw national borders on the map 
with red blood of warriors and guardians 
whose winless battles on those fields of rage 
reveal where they last clashed to gain control, 
but left their comrades rotting in the mud 
where wheat and flowers bloom now from their skulls. 

The shining Heaven on the hill of power, 
where we protect our families safe from harm 
to eat and play with freedom of our will, 
is haven we enclose with walls of stone 
that transforms into prison of blind fear 
when guardian kings become tyrants of greed. 

I hang my painting on museum wall 
so strangers seeking ancient truths in art 
could decipher my weird symbolic code 
through esoteric scriptures of lost tales 
when they see how my brain perceives the world 
as atoms swerving blindly in the void. 

Through art I generalize our complex truths 
to simple statements of conceptual riddles 
that twist false answers into diatribes 
which demagogues employ to hypnotize 
people fighting wars over fertile lands 
till all walls are destroyed by timeless truth. 

Lute Of The Troubadour

Lute Of The Troubadour
© Surazeus
2023 12 18

Patrolling lands around the castle hall, 
young Sheriff Herrius on white prancing horse 
spots beautiful girl with long golden hair 
who strums new polished lute and sings sweet tune 
while couples dance among the apple trees 
where they make love, enchanted by her spell. 

Entranced by gleaming diamonds of her eyes, 
Herrius pushes her down by garden wall 
and fills her womb with spirit of his love 
while she stares surprised at the silver sky, 
then gives her soft kiss on her blushing cheek 
while he rides away with a cheerful wave. 

Enraged at violation of her right 
to choose the man whose child she wants to bear, 
Garsenda retreats to her secret cave 
where she eats mushrooms to abort the child, 
but she sees Phoebus descend from the sun 
and fill her body with transcendent glow. 

When morning sun gleams on the apple trees, 
Abbot Rolandus strolls on the lake shore 
where he finds her baby boy in a basket, 
so he gives him to the gardener Alis 
who breastfeeds him while yellow sparrows chirp, 
so Garsenda slips away as she weeps. 

The little boy, that Alis names Albric, 
tries to play the large lute left in his basket, 
but people throw cabbages at his head, 
so he finds the old troubadour Giraut, 
who teaches him how to improvise ballads 
while strumming sweet notes that enchant the heart. 

Knocking at the gold gate of paradise, 
he asks admittance to Garden of Love, 
so Isolde, princess surrounded girls, 
invites him in to play, but when he sings 
they mock his croaky voice and call him crow, 
so he runs back to the abbey to cry. 

Hiding among the rosemary and thyme, 
Albric plucks strings on the lute of his heart, 
till from anguish he composes sweet tune 
and sings about the girl with starry eyes 
when Beatriz, daughter of the gardener, 
brings him roast lamb and apple pie to eat. 

Kissing his mouth smeared with her apple pie, 
Beatriz pulls Albric deep into her heart, 
and they make love among white butterflies, 
then stroll in woods to find berries and eggs 
for Alis to cook for their wedding feast, 
and they dance all night by the silver moon. 

After giving birth to boy of their heart, 
Beatriz calls out for Albric to appear, 
but no one has seen him for several days, 
and she cries when Roger, the blacksmith, claims 
he was seen running away to the castle 
and told farmer Pier he was seeking fame. 

Three years after kind Albric disappeared, 
Beatriz marries Roger, and bears three sons, 
but she favors her eldest son, Perseval, 
who learns to play the lute from Auberon, 
so they play in the castle for the Duke 
when he entertains courtiers from the King. 

One day while foraging in the deep woods, 
Beatriz finds hidden under pile of oak limbs 
mangled skeleton of Albric, her love, 
skull crushed as if from sharp blow to his head, 
whose hand still clutches his time-weathered lute, 
so she weeps in shock from her broken heart. 

Cooking special mushroom stew just for Roger, 
Beatriz places large bowl with beaming smile, 
but, as he eats with relish of his pride, 
she shows him the old lute, still stained with blood, 
then smirks with knowledge of his evil deed 
while he chokes to death with fear in his eyes. 

Dressed in elegant gold-embroidered cloak, 
and leather hat with feathers of the swan, 
Perseval performs by the garden pool 
before beautiful Princess Eleanor, 
whose emerald eyes gleam with flirtatious glee 
when he compares her to the graceful hind. 

Holding hands with warm electric desire, 
Eleanor and Perseval, secret lovers, 
run romantically through beams of sunlight, 
cloaks fluttering in cool eager river breeze, 
eyes flashing with joy at forbidden passion 
as they smile at each other with sweet lust. 

While the Third Son of the King with his crew 
hunt for the gold hind and the silver wolf 
with arrows notched in yew bows taut with rage, 
Eleanor opens treasure of her heart 
for Perseval to pleasure her with love, 
and they grasp each other tight as they kiss. 

Filling her heart with spirit of his love, 
Perseval cries out with ecstatic joy, 
and Eleanor sees him become the god 
as Phoebus beams bright spirit of the sun 
that luminates her mind with holy vision 
that she will birth the Angel Gabriel. 

Collapsing on her breast with anguished cry, 
Perseval stares so deep into her eyes 
that she feels strange terror strike at her soul, 
then finds that an arrow has pierced his heart, 
and screams as Third Son of the King appears 
and kicks the dead troubadour in the stream. 

Stretching out her arms to touch his cold hand, 
Eleanor sobs at sight of his dead eyes, 
then screams and punches Third Son of the King 
as he rapes her with fierce possessive growl, 
declaring that the first child she will bear 
will blossom from seed of his noble power. 

After wedding with Third Son of the King, 
Eleanor sits numb, paralyzed with fear, 
between the old king and his half-blind queen, 
feeling nauseous as she stares at the beef, 
but drinks the grail of wine with grim ennui, 
and weeps when Tibors sings a sad love ballad. 

Naming the daughter she bears Gabriela, 
Eleanor treasures angel of her heart 
whose eyes gleam silver as eyes of the wolf 
who wooed her heart in garden of delight, 
and teaches her how to play the small lute 
in secret while her husband plays with whores. 

When she is thirteen, blooming as an angel, 
Gabriela dresses in long white gown 
with swan wings, and tiara with nine diamonds, 
then stands before the whole court in the castle 
to sing hymn she wrote that celebrates Easter, 
about how Christ has risen from the dead. 

Realizing with shock of bitter rage 
that beautiful and elegant Gabriela 
is daughter of the troubadour he killed, 
the Third Son of the King runs to their chamber 
where Eleanor laughs at him with despair 
as he chokes her to death on the silk bed. 

Shocked to see her father killing her mother, 
Gabriela races to tell the King 
who sends soldiers to arrest him for murder, 
but he runs spiral steps to tower room 
where he leaps in attempt to fly to Heaven, 
but tumbles wingless on sharp rocks below. 

Wandering on the signless road town to town, 
Gabriela strums lute and sings sweet tune 
while couples dance, enchanted by her spell, 
then spies handsome Sherrif on prancing horse 
who offers her shelter in castle hall 
where they kiss after eating lamb and wine. 

Indifferent Silence Of Nature

Indifferent Silence Of Nature
© Surazeus
2023 12 17

Haunted by indifferent silence of Nature, 
who smiles at me from dark gloom of the yard 
beyond frail shelter of window and door, 
I sing heart-breaking elegy of love 
with aching passion of atomic beams 
that weave my brain from memories of the sea. 

Eternal nothingness of everywhere 
shines in each atom that composes Earth 
which forms my soul at hydrothermal vents 
so I incarnate conscious hope of light 
as I rise dripping at gold flash of dawn 
from sea of dreams to touch the apple sky. 

After I pluck fruit from the tree of life 
and sit on hilltop of the dancing wind 
to eat the red sun glowing in my hand, 
I feel eternal conscious ache of love 
inspire my beating heart to spread my arms 
and race with birds that fly beyond the clouds. 

Ten million years after I was first born, 
I spring again from cave of flickering light 
to run along gold sand to swirling waves 
where dragons with sharp teeth call out my name 
as I thrust spear into their open mouths 
and roast them on my flat-top pyramid. 

Placing skull of the dragon on my head, 
I reign as god on pyramid of skulls 
while people dance around wild roaring flames 
then cheer when I slay the dragon of fear 
and roast it well for everyone to eat 
for mothers bear new children of our souls. 

Startled from dream by loud exploding blast, 
I peer over edge of the muddy trench 
at metal tanks rumbling over barbed wire 
while planes roaring across the sky drop bombs 
that blast churches and factories to ruins 
where Jesus stands blind amid blood-stained rubble. 

Lying in tall grass by the sparkling stream, 
I hold the ripe juicy apple up high 
so, when the wild horse ventures close to smell, 
I caress her nose and murmur soft words, 
then stroll beside her among meadow flowers 
to rest together in the apple grove. 

I think about her as I drive my car 
to buy ripe apples at the grocery store, 
the horse I met by the tall apple tree 
six thousand years ago in hills of Scythia, 
whose spirit gleaming in her moon-bright eyes 
haunts me with indifferent silence of Nature. 

Her Ghostly Face

Her Ghostly Face
© Surazeus
2023 12 17

To hang cracked mirror of her ghostly face 
above the mantle of the cold fireplace 
I stretch my arms beyond cave of my heart, 
calculating gear-fate of the star chart 
that measures length of hope to judgment day 
which comes not, no matter how hard I pray. 

The cherry tree bends in cold winter rain 
that gleams from loving candlelight in vain 
though I cut cabbage all night as I wait 
for my love to come home, since he is late 
returning from wars between castle kings, 
till I wake at flutter of raven wings. 

The black horse on horizon of my hope 
brings hungry death swiftly down the wet slope 
on hoofs that shake my heart with numb despair, 
eyes blinded by the early morning glare 
that cracks sharp as the ax against red wood 
of holy icons to expose falsehood. 

Appearing from dark woods as glowing wraith, 
Marzanna, dressed in long white gown of faith, 
head wreathed with flowers blooming in brown snow, 
parades slowly through the festival show 
to portray concept of soul purity, 
which townsfolk burn and drown in effigy. 

The timeless energy of folk witchcraft, 
which fearful Christians have long mocked as daft, 
still surges in fierce hearts of teenage girls 
who feel transcendent passion of star swirls 
empower their quest for the Holy Grail 
which glows in cavern of their secret vale. 

While riding in sleek car on Christmas Eve, 
past mist-shrouded meadow where angels grieve, 
Marianne sees black horse beneath the star 
that bears her heart to some strange land afar 
where she bakes apple pies in fire-lit room 
as children sing and dance in snowy gloom. 

Sitting on soft couch by the crackling hearth, 
with her large family in holiday mirth, 
Marianne sees on cluttered Christmas tree, 
gleaming with eerie light, the magic key 
which opens all doors in the multiverse, 
so she decides to become the soul nurse. 

Gazing from mantle of the bright fireplace, 
the old star-eyed witch with the ghostly face 
animates young girl with ambitious plan 
to create world savior from the caveman 
who perceives the real her behind her mask 
when he brings her juice in the fragile flask. 

Weird Spirit I Found

Weird Spirit I Found
© Surazeus
2023 12 16

Whatever I found in the swirling mist 
while riding the car on the highway east 
from Seattle into the mountain range
remains with me as the spirit more strange 
than what Apollo found on Helicon 
and left for me in woods of Avalon. 

Through eerie shadow of the mountain vale 
I retrieve lyre of Hermes from dark soil, 
and when I strum its strings my weird spells cast 
illusion of my Muse as faceless ghost 
who glows above Takoma Mountain peak 
so memories of my ancestors awake. 

They swirl around me on wild mountain wind 
to conjure visions of their lost dreamland 
around dark Lake Verkana where fierce wolves 
race with herds of horses and raven elves 
to golden ziggurat where Ishtar reigns 
as sorceress who records dreams with runes. 

Though I stroll streets of Seattle at night 
past bars and galleries toward candle light 
that gleams from bookstore maze of secret tomes, 
I remember every road my heart roams 
ten thousand years Scythia to Oregon 
on my way to redesign Babylon. 

I thought I would find in library halls 
epics of heroes who play noble roles 
preserving wisdom sages wrote in books, 
but stumble instead over river rocks 
on mountain trail where demons haunt my steps 
to evade the American cyclops. 

Hitchhiking east to find the Lake of Dreams 
where First Mother sings in honey sunbeams, 
I wander streets of Miami at noon 
flooded with rain of the albatross moon, 
then play lyre of Mercury by the beach 
to tame fierce passion of the Bandersnatch. 

Weird spirit I found in the mountain mist 
that shrouds Seattle to the ocean coast 
glows in my heart with cosmic energy, 
so I compose Astarian liturgy 
for lost tribes gathered in ruined steel halls 
to sing after civilization falls. 

All idols are illusions of dead gods 
who once were men walking old signless roads 
for fertile land where they can build their home 
and feast on apples by the flowing stream 
till invaders colonize it as theirs 
by divine right of never-changing stars. 

Resilience Of Our Love

Resilience Of Our Love
© Surazeus
2023 12 14

When yellow spiders wrap my rotten corpse 
in starless cocoon of lost memories, 
then hang me from the highest ancient oak 
for me to dangle over the abyss, 
I feel torn fragments of my mirror mind 
disperse from blast of my exploding star. 

Under orange fog of the late autumn dawn 
I drive the winding road among tall oaks 
that shroud graves of my ancestors in leaves 
so when they rise from shadow of desire 
they crowd around my bed to chant low hymns 
with solemn timbre of cold ocean waves. 

For when I stand on shore of the wild lake, 
far from urban zones of commercial streets, 
and cry out to God of the Holy Book, 
nothing answers me but the antlered buck 
when Cernunnos emerges from dark waters 
and gazes in my soul with moon-black eyes. 

Since the mocking echo of my own voice 
is all that answers across mountain lakes 
I search the heart of darkness deep in me 
to conjure counter-love for every soul 
which I sing through original response 
to let lost souls know I can hear their prayers. 

From starless darkness of ancient oak woods 
my heart emerges from cocoon of death, 
reborn from fever of conceptual fear 
to play heart-aching melodies of faith 
on music pipe I carve from dragon bones 
that calls wild creatures to my moon-lit grove. 

Back eastward on road my ancestors blazed 
I pass through ruins of cities they built 
to find secret treasure of the first town 
where Tiresias presides in ring of stones 
over global empire of singing ghosts 
till they vanish when Ariel plays his flute. 

Wandering vast museum of empty rooms 
where fragments of ancient myths lurk in light, 
the marble statues from the Parthenon, 
the Grecian Urn, the Bust of Ozymandias, 
I search till I find the Skull of Orpheus 
who still sings prophecies no one can hear. 

When yellow spiders weave my newborn soul 
from dream-entangled threads of ancient myths, 
I wake refreshed from timeless sleep of death 
to sit with ghosts of people I adore, 
heart strengthened by resilience of our love 
that reassembles my mind from their eyes. 

Camera Of My Heart

Camera Of My Heart
© Surazeus
2023 12 13

I used to see our whole world upside-down, 
but when I started to take photographs 
with compassionate camera of my heart, 
I began to perceive the secret soul 
who hides behind the mask of every face 
through reverse image of our mortal minds. 

While waiting in the office of white walls 
for results that reveal mortality, 
I deconstruct strange vision of my soul 
through subjective gaze of their wordless eyes 
till I become the idol they adore 
who vanishes when the movie is done. 

The homeless vagabond in tattered dress, 
who walks every street in the city maze 
one thousand times from her birth till her death, 
stands before the gold locked cathedral door 
and sings with aching voice of raucous crows 
hymn of salvation to the deaf wood god. 

Though the old puppet-master lies in bed, 
gasping last breath of desire in this world, 
his puppets all dance around his glass tomb 
while all the films he made vanish from dream 
as fragile bubbles popping on the stream 
where his skull prophesies the end of time. 

The young girl and the lamb frolic with joy 
in the wheat field where crows talk about God 
beside crashed plane from the second world war 
that bombed the garden of the laughing goat, 
then she films farmers gathering bales of hay 
with sickles they stole from the hand of Death. 

The woman with the camera in her hand 
stands on the hill of skulls that sing our names, 
and films soldiers who storm the doorless school 
then shoot women and children in the head, 
for the flag of victory flaps in the wind 
while the crownless king on the donkey cheers. 

When the Phoenix with nuclear eyes of rage 
rises from ashes of the holocaust, 
Ezekiel drives the chariot of fire 
to crush brick houses of the nameless ghosts, 
then bombs the temple on the hill of skulls 
for thirteenth coming of messiah sleuth. 

After she finishes filming the scene, 
where people on the pyramid rejoice 
at reconstruction of the temple hall, 
the actors take off their masks and go home, 
then she walks on the left bank of the river 
to photograph the world still upside-down. 

Grand Scheme Of Life

Grand Scheme Of Life
© Surazeus
2023 12 12

Uncertain about the grand scheme of life 
that seems to glow behind this world of forms, 
I grope through darkness of its boundless dream 
to measure the shapes of things that exist 
within binding limits of time and space, 
constrained by how my brain tags things with words. 

Within swirling metaphor of the sea 
I find the hydrothermal vents of hope 
where carbon rings first formed conceptual brains 
that strive to transcend constraints of the self 
to become the universal ideal 
which guides our journey to the Promised Land. 

Though I find the entire system of things 
represented in every particle 
that spirals from first flash of the White Whole, 
I feel my special self alive this hour 
correspond to the Universal Self 
which I feel glowing in atoms of I. 

This Universal Self awake in me 
as vibrant consciousness of timeless hope, 
which I pretend for twenty thousand years 
permeates all existing creatures as God, 
is nothing more than spirit of my brain 
sparked awake by agentive chemicals. 

This metaphor of love my mind designs 
to help me better comprehend weird nature 
fails to fully appropriate all parts 
that would eradicate contrary truths 
when concepts oscillate between extremes 
through balanced order to cohere as me. 

When I construct well from contrary facts 
coherent structure in system of truth 
I feel flow from hermetically sealed thoughts 
aggressive contradictions that vibrate 
in complex flash between far separate parts 
which connects every tale in one great myth. 

Conflict between parts in the global whole 
highlights how separateness of many parts 
displays connection of conceptual need 
that binds conflicting tribes lead by fierce gods 
in United Nations of fractured peace 
where every river flows into one sea. 

The water of the world that shines with light 
is that dark womb of hope from which we rose 
so we are born from rain on mountain peaks 
and we flow with long cataract of life 
down to universal grave of the sea 
from which our children rise to live with hope. 

If the whole universe contains one mind 
that dreams it all from concept of its love 
then counter-currents swirling in one whole 
assert their will to dominate with tone 
of vibrant passion symphony of life 
so as opposing pairs we form one mind. 

Thus hand in hand, with wandering steps and slow, 
through verdant Eden of our naked hearts, 
we take our solitary way on signless road 
till we build cities on each river shore 
where our children fight to control the truth 
that blossoms from heart of darkness with love.  

Design Of Beautiful Death

Design Of Beautiful Death
© Surazeus
2023 12 11

When I lie with cold comfort of the night, 
blanketed snug by darkness, my old friend, 
I ponder design of beautiful death 
that will erase me from this dreaming world, 
and compose other creatures with weird names 
from these particles that compose me now. 

With wretched angst on naked rocks of fear 
I crawl through lightless chaos of despair 
as world I thought I knew well dissipates 
in shattered fragments of unmirrored glass 
that gleam white as the dawn sun on black hills 
to blind me with well-ordered world of forms. 

The large white spider on white flower bloom, 
who holds dead satin-rigid moth of light, 
explains with aching hunger of desire 
complex design of this weird gleaming world 
where oaks and willows on the river shore 
stare down at me with indifferent respect. 

As if enormous monster of the sun 
will rise from ocean waves with faceless light 
and gleam with whiteness of eternity, 
I breathe contemptuous anger of the wind 
to face shocking nothingness of I am 
when I leap laughing on the jagged cliff. 

Awake with answers my ancestors shaped 
with mental visions forming wordless truth, 
I question how my brain knows what is real 
as I reverse design of all I see, 
light spirits encased in material themes 
that flash with aggressive will to transform. 

Appalled at beauty of consuming gloom 
when timeless sunlight casts bleak pall of hope 
on teeming waves of wind-blown trees on hills 
that shine with divine reflection of thought, 
I perceive real picture behind the scene 
where creatures move across white field of death. 

Uncertain whiteness of the ancient soul, 
that glows with fierce immortal song of love, 
gleams deep inside frail bones of my respect 
when I gaze deep in fractured quartz of truth 
to see who might dwell deep inside our world 
with pulsing passion of wild thunderstorms. 

Stark darkness beaming wide from the White Whole 
catalogs forms swerving atoms attain 
as they bloom entangled into our bodies 
and glow with conscious sense of this I am 
so I must jest of sorrow we endure 
through sweet heart-aching song of ocean waves. 

Doubt Is The Only Road

Doubt Is The Only Road
© Surazeus
2023 12 11

Since we are the line between good and evil, 
forming roughly zones of ovular swirls, 
that fluctuate with context of desire 
around poles of moral choice, stuck to land 
we claim as ours based on ancestral birth, 
our conscious souls oscillate into change. 

The White Whole at the center of all light, 
which generates existence from its dream, 
forms vast expanding oval of desire 
from God Eye of thought inside core of hope 
that spirals atoms into structured things 
through construction and destruction of change. 

Though future possibilities of hope, 
that would transpire from choice of eager love, 
to travel toward paradise we create, 
bloom from bright visions our brains generate, 
we cannot see consequences of actions 
hidden around bends in the undergrowth. 

I am no transparent eye-ball of truth 
for I am limited in time-spaced scope 
through capability to perceive how 
chaos of nature would metamorphose 
from tense compression of this present state, 
so I proceed with faith that time will tell. 

I can only travel one road of life 
so I progress on rough journey I choose, 
satisfied that destiny I create 
is natural expression of my soul state 
as I transcend past versions of myself 
to become new self my heart generates. 

Though I lament need of calm mental health 
to accept well that I am limited 
in subjective perception of this world, 
I resist fraught urge to plunge on ahead 
by lingering at this crossroads of my fear, 
knowing my analysis must be vague. 

So many signless roads spread out from where 
I stand forever on the edge of time, 
fragmenting my future selves into souls 
who will always be same as I am now, 
thus I decide with sly skeptical grin, 
wherever I roam my heart is my home. 

As I step forward on the road not taken, 
I proclaim loudly to ravens in oaks 
that Doubt is the only road to the Truth 
for there is no road that I never take, 
because this true road I blaze with my will 
becomes my own line between good and evil. 

Ashes Of World War

Ashes Of World War
© Surazeus
2023 12 10

The empty silence of the windless plain 
that whistles in bleak hollow of my mind 
translates voices of my ancestral dead 
in strange stories that flash across my eye, 
so I can see our whole world in my dream 
that fades out when I wake without my name. 

The thriving city I see in my dreams, 
tall houses of brick with windows that gleam 
over gardens of people tending plants 
along tree-shaded avenues with lamps 
where families stroll to restaurants and parks, 
has vanished in the smoke of blasting bombs. 

The men in slick suits, the women in gowns, 
the children running in games of wild joy, 
the workers building things in crafting shops, 
the farmers selling produce in wood stalls, 
the businessmen contracting deals in banks, 
are now all ghosts with terror-haunted eyes. 

This paradise we built one thousand years, 
erecting churches, factories, and shops, 
while raising families in garden homes, 
has vanished from the world of changing forms 
when planes dropped bombs to blow it all away, 
and leaves me wandering in vast maze of Hell. 

Mad tyrant in gold castle on the hill, 
blinded with greed to control the whole world, 
built weapons of death with bullets and bombs, 
then organized millions of angry boys 
in fierce army driven by sense of pride 
to conquer fertile lands with stomping boots. 

Yet kings who reign over empires of ruins, 
and rule over corpses rotting in mud, 
will wander lost in Hell their hands design, 
proudly strutting in waste land of their fear, 
haunted by mute ghosts of people they killed, 
till they too shriek in despair at their death. 

I kneel on windless plain and drink black milk 
that bubbles from wound in heart of the Earth 
till my body is suffused with blind grief 
at senseless death of people I admire, 
and wanton destruction of paradise, 
then I scream swarm of crows into the sky. 

Since kiss of Pygmalion sparks me to life 
with flame of passion Prometheus stole, 
I will rise strong from ashes of world war 
to build new Pandemonium in Hell 
where I can reign as president for life, 
alone on stage in theater of skulls. 

When I Overcome Myself

When I Overcome Myself
© Surazeus
2023 12 09

With photo of the girl I love in hand 
I walk the blistering plain of wordless snow 
in red boots from Berlin to Leningrad 
where I want to study conceptual flow 
of demons dancing on high hill of skulls, 
haunted by millions of bomb-blasted souls. 

With tattered wings I stole from Icarus 
I dance across the bridge of evolution 
that twangs above the bottomless abyss 
in my quest to transcend the Superman 
when I overcome myself to become god, 
hunted into Hell by the justice squad. 

With rifle of bold will to change my fate 
I storm the holy citadel of Heaven 
where I shoot each angel guarding the gate 
to find nothing on gold throne but Moon Raven 
who mocks me as I trudge the muddy road 
back to fatherland of the humming toad. 

With iron fist in the arrogant tower, 
first forged from rage by eldest son of Jesus, 
I build world empire on electric power 
which I rule from dream cave on Mount Parnassus 
as dragon rising from the Texas plain 
because I teleport through drops of rain. 

With mirror that reflects spiritual stations 
I lure Amaterasu from her cave 
to help Rapunzel build United Nations 
from psychic energy of the sea wave 
on which I surf back home to Avalon 
where Ishtar rules, exiled from Babylon. 

With vibrant radar lyre of Mercury 
I explore Hades with the submarine 
on quest to find lost books of sorcery 
I want to give as gifts to Melusine 
who waits for me to come home from the war 
while working in our family grocery store. 

With treasure map for maze of Samarkand 
I journey back east with the Monkey King 
on white horse from Berlin to Leningrad, 
but I stop to watch sweet Luthien sing 
till Stalin abducts her from field of flowers 
and crowns her empress of the factory towers. 

With Scroll of Isaiah on sea of glass 
I reveal status of the New World Order 
based on measurement of atomic mass, 
employed by contempt of the punk skateboarder 
who raps about code of the cosmic herald, 
though I wake up from my visions bedeviled. 

Center Of Each Nation

Center Of Each Nation
© Surazeus
2023 12 08

The people I meet on the city street 
do not appear to me as fields of wheat, 
except as they eat fresh-baked loaves of bread, 
then gather in church to pray for the dead 
who haunt their dreams in everything they see, 
for every river flows on to the sea. 

The airplanes come and go on silver wings 
designed by Daedalus to mimic rings 
that spiral from expressive beat of hope 
in prayerless ritual that helps lost souls cope 
when bombs destroy the simple homes they built, 
fired by the castle king who feels no guilt. 

The prophet who predicted each world war 
dies in winter, and will cry out no more 
with desperate hope to teach the haughty fool, 
who claims birth gives him divine right to rule, 
to steer the ship of state through storms of greed, 
while the humble farmer plants his fruit seed. 

The blind falconer in tower of hands 
knows where the center of each nation stands 
as poles between opposing states of truth, 
only reconciled by messiah sleuth 
who binds all religions in one world faith 
that venerates Soul Egg of the Star Wraith. 

The boy who falls from Heaven in the sea, 
while fighting tyranny so we live free, 
maps where delicate ships go every dawn, 
amused because they still sail calmly on, 
as if thousands of children killed by bombs 
warrant nothing more than forgotten tombs. 

The sad martyrdom of the innocent, 
lost in the long-forgotten incident, 
is nothing more than footnote never read 
in world chronicle of the nameless dead 
who ask me, with their faces half-blown off, 
whether I will render justice, or scoff. 

The waves of angry fear that circulate 
over lands of the Earth, darkened by fate, 
corrupt dishonest decade with despair 
that shadows deserted Scarborough Fair 
with golem of our psychopathic god 
who drives our culture mad with money fraud. 

The bright euphoric dream of global peace, 
long sustained by diplomatic caprice, 
conceals imperial ambitions of kings 
who trick each other with fake magic rings, 
so I gaze through vast mirror of my eye 
while rain continues falling from the sky. 

Nonexistence Of Self

Nonexistence Of Self
© Surazeus
2023 12 08

Though I can never more talk to the dead 
by stirring sonic field of mindless thought, 
I can listen to the dead speak to me 
through whisper of wind on waves of the lake 
or mutter of trees on the hills and plains, 
for they teach me nonexistence of self. 

With burning needles of the alphabet 
I can sew vast tapestry from lost tales 
depicting how we humans have survived 
since we crawled up rivers to mountain lakes 
and stood by fruit trees to sing with bird calls 
stories about nonexistence of self. 

While walking in the mist of mountain woods 
on silent vacancy of sunless land 
between cluttered village of memory 
and voiceless cave of expectation, I 
speak the world real to spring from void of hope 
as river from nonexistence of self. 

Across the slow flash of one million years 
I stand beside the river of my mind 
and listen to its timeless song of love 
accumulate bright memories of the dead 
as ceaseless flow of stories humans share 
that record whole nonexistence of self. 

Since every river flowing in the world 
has been named for translator of its song 
to twisted narrative of human dreams, 
I search the waste land outside every nation 
to hear the wordless silence of desire 
which generates nonexistence of self. 

Through never-ending cycle of the seasons 
Earth blooms and decays with song of the water 
that captures every word humans have spoken 
to flood lush farms with ideologies 
when dams of religions collapse from hope, 
which redesigns nonexistence of self. 

We gather in garden of paradise 
to hide from thieves behind walls of desire 
till Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil 
has been stripped bare of prayers the dead recite, 
and we scatter to seed the Earth with words 
that try to name nonexistence of self. 

Every day when I wake on Earth again 
I half-remember the words of the dead 
they spoke to me in the Realm of Ideas 
so I can build Heaven from changing forms 
in temple hall where only the dead speak 
to calculate nonexistence of self. 

Frail Leaf In The Wind

Frail Leaf In The Wind
© Surazeus
2023 12 07

As nothing more than frail leaf in the wind, 
I float with busy crowd on Friday evening 
whose faces glow orange in cold sunset fire 
which writhes with agony at joy of being 
when I expand on mushrooms from my mind 
to become ghost in the telephone wire. 

Though human faces melt into the sea 
to flash as spirits through the spiral ring, 
which coils from first flash at the dawn of time, 
I will transcend this world on breathing wing 
through complex riddles of the psychic key 
encoding how my soul evolves from slime. 

As gleam of sunlight on the river stone 
vibrating half-awake with cosmic ting, 
I swim through currents of pneumatic thought 
with labyrinthine eye of curious unseeing 
that programs bardic skill in my blind clone 
who calculates truth through romantic plot. 

Since sad demonic angels rise from death 
on whispered words of hope from thermal spring, 
we transform bodies from mother to child 
when we evolve with love from benzene ring 
as cosmic consciousness of holy breath 
based on immortal soul of genes compiled. 

As I consider nature of this Earth 
to ponder what my senses know is real, 
I carve from diamond my eternal face 
that mirrors spiral typing of the wheel 
to measure geography of her girth 
which plots exclusive curve of time and space. 

Though I am character in lost scroll of dreams, 
preserved with integrity of its seal, 
I choose to walk the road of crowded stores 
with graceful balance of my psychic keel 
till I sail from mountain cave of bold streams 
to float as mute leaf past unopened doors. 

As I beguile attentive crowd of ghosts, 
who want to understand what humans feel, 
with ancient epic of philosophers, 
I channel energy of loyal zeal 
by building castles on storm-battered coasts 
where princesses live with cartographers. 

Though I am frail leaf on wild wind of change, 
forged into prophet by this weird ordeal, 
I keep wise insight into flow of life 
encoded in concept of the ideal 
to incarnate trope that presents whole range 
of treasures I win overcoming strife. 

Aware That I Am Real

Aware That I Am Real
© Surazeus
2023 12 07

The voice at the other end of my life 
calls me to swim in memories of the time 
I first became aware that I am real 
while rising ever upward toward the light 
that shimmers through eccentric waves of thought 
till I burst through clear surface of the sea. 

The moving water is no metaphor 
that carries my mind across the vast void 
through repetition of elegant waves 
which return to the beginning of the end 
with each expression of sorrow-bound joy 
atoning for the words I never speak. 

With the ax Daedalus chops down the tree, 
then with the saw he cuts it into parts 
which he assembles in the cart with wheels 
that bears the statue of the formless god 
his mind invents from nothingness of hope 
while children strew it with flowers and fruit. 

His son refuses to wear the wood wings 
that he invents to escape from the tower 
which towers over labyrinth of halls 
he designed to trap monster of desire 
the young princess bore from seed of the bull 
who laughs at children learning how to fish. 

He cannot rest after working six days 
to build the palace with ten thousand doors 
so Hercules can find his way back home 
though he wanders lost in the Underworld 
after drinking potion of mushroom mead 
to search for Venus in dark swirling mist. 

If they decide to fight over the girl 
who hides in shadow of the apple tree, 
Daedalus and Hercules would destroy 
beautiful garden where wild Maenads dance 
ten thousand years as empires rise and fall 
to prove fertility could conquer death. 

Instead they reconcile knowledge with strength 
in shining wisdom of the singing nymph 
who climbs the wind-swept pyramid of skulls 
to reign over vast kingdom of the mad 
who fight each other for whose god is real 
while the Earth keeps on spinning in the void. 

The boulder that rolled off the mountaintop 
one million years before I wake from dream, 
and lodged against grassy bank of the stream, 
realigns ceaseless current of star light, 
so when I pluck apple from Tree of Life 
I will remember timeless glow of love. 

Follow Chariot Of Phaethon

Follow Chariot Of Phaethon
© Surazeus
2023 12 06

Holding the White Rose of the Holy Ghost, 
I walk within walls of Jerusalem 
to find sacred stone on the mountain top 
where light of the sun once became the man 
who teaches us how to make angel wings 
so when they kill us we forget to die. 

From vision of the prophet on the street, 
who walks into the sky on divine breath, 
I extract conceptual nature of truth 
so when I gaze through telescope of faith 
I can see Heaven shine among the stars 
where Jehovah sits on his diamond throne. 

But vision of paradise with fruit trees 
vanishes in smoke of exploding bombs 
that Jehovah fires from tower of skulls 
to drive lost tribes from the Promised Land 
who wander nowhere in the wilderness 
to found new empire of the red right hand. 

Yet I dance laughing in the summer breeze 
around cobwebbed ruins of dead-god tombs 
while sons of Apollo herd Texas bulls 
to honor Mithra and his red-cape brand 
through endless human search for happiness 
that springs from mountain cave near Samarkand. 

Far from the misty isle of Avalon 
where my ancestors lived ten thousand years 
I hitchhike signless highway from Seattle 
to cross east of the Mississippi River 
on quest to find where Melusine was born, 
but linger lost in Appalachian hills. 

Somewhere in snowy woods of Idaho 
the covered wagon my ancestors drove 
over high Rocky Mountains from Missouri 
among lush hills of the Oregon Trail 
now rots in tangled roots of the oak tree 
my great-great-grandmother planted with tears. 

Wading waters that flood Miami Beach, 
I raise old wood guitar over my head, 
but walk not on water like Jesus did, 
though I see Venus on the scallop shell, 
hair blown by breath of Zephyrus, my guide 
who teaches me the honest facts of death. 

From time-shattered walls of Jerusalem, 
through golden halls of Athens on the hill, 
beyond crowded streets of Byzantium, 
I follow chariot of Phaethon past Heaven 
on endless quest to find some secret vale 
where I can live free from old castle kings. 

Build Our Secret Home

Build Our Secret Home
© Surazeus
2023 12 05

Elusive sense of sorrow in the wind 
leads me back to the rocky river shore 
in the sun-suffused countryside of hills 
where I stand in silver shimmer of time 
and cast the fishing line into clear waves 
so I can find who breathes the world alive. 

The girl who rises from the river flow 
shows me the world mirror without a face, 
then leads me to the tree without its fruit 
and asks me how I can live without her, 
so I hold her hand and give her a name 
as we walk the signless road to the sky. 

Together in soft whisper of the wind, 
we feel bright consciousness of aching love 
curl around our bones with roots of trees 
that sparkle with snowflakes of endless hope 
which swirl around us on the houseless plain 
where we decide to build our secret home. 

Huddled on river stones in blue moonlight, 
bodies glowing with each crackle of ice 
that fractures the moon into dusty snow, 
we sing with Mercury howl of the wind 
that twists contorted branches of our bones 
with ceaseless orbit of the naked hill. 

Because magnetic vibrance of the moon 
bonds our two hearts in ache of desperate hope 
we feel our world unravel into fear, 
undone by visions of blind skeletons 
who dance around wild flames of solitude 
with tense compassion of the river stone. 

Till dawn dissolves white nothingness of death 
with sparkling rivulets of honest hope 
we seek dark flame of blind eternity 
deep in our hearts unfractured as the moon 
who kisses us with warmth of wretched fear, 
so we hug each other and walk again. 

Fur glowing gold with red flash of the dawn, 
the green-eyed fox emerging from grim woods 
pauses in meadow of moon-frosted snow 
and watches us with compassionate love, 
then vanishes into shadow of joy 
that guides our way across the roadless world. 

Picking apples from tall tree on the hill, 
we eat sweet juicy fruit of the kind Earth 
while roaming along river of white stones 
as if we have forgotten how to laugh 
when summer melts our sorrows into streams 
where our children play outside our strange dreams. 

Demon Who Eats Words

Demon Who Eats Words
© Surazeus
2023 12 05

Because I fight the demon who eats words 
with mocking laughter of sad elegies, 
my mind becomes crowded with singing birds 
who swarm around me bearing secret keys, 
so when I open cage door of my heart 
they soar on weird patterns of the star chart. 

Through spiral whirl of psychic energy 
fierce dream songs, sprouting from my fertile brain, 
blast into lies cruel ideology 
of racist hate that proves the proud are vain 
with bold tornado of satiric spells 
that crawl on claws from demon-haunted wells. 

Alarmed by fetid beliefs of their minds 
that some humans are superior to others, 
I smash false principles of race that binds 
frightened nations into fierce band of brothers 
who kill women and children with wild glee 
when they rampage on their bloodthirsty spree. 

Instead of fighting fascists wearing crowns 
who claim divine right to exploit the poor, 
they should be protecting the small-farm towns 
where Worried Mother keeps watch in the door 
for their men who grow food that feeds the world, 
but now we cry out for the cosmic herald. 

Though our world seems to spin out of control 
with fractured nation-states that worship gods 
based on ancestors who enforced their goal, 
eccentric characters form justice squads 
to fight for equal rights of every person, 
yet the situation just seems to worsen. 

When common people begin to awaken 
and rise against the wealthy clutching power, 
state institutions will collapse when shaken, 
so self-crowned tyrants retreat to the tower, 
then send soldiers to commit genocide 
against the foreigners who hurt their pride. 

Yet Cronus always rises from dream caves 
to lead their revolution against Heaven 
that leaves crippled angels fallen in waves 
at joyful lamentation of Moon Raven 
who emerges scathed from the history book 
to free Mute Princess from the fractured rook. 

Beware the demon who will eat your thoughts 
when you play chess game with Death on the beach, 
lest they replace us with servile robots 
who perform tasks only angels can teach 
through strange artificial intelligence 
programmed from proverbs of our common sense. 

Dream One Million Years

Dream One Million Years
© Surazeus
2023 12 04

The book that always falls off the glass shelf, 
which hides the true story of my weird birth, 
flies away on raven wings to the west 
to find out where the sun goes when it dies 
but never returns from white flame of death 
when I dream one million years in the pool. 

Cold bitter wind that blows up from the sea 
steals pages from the book I cannot find 
though I climb in the red oak on the hill 
and search for angels swimming in green waves 
as if they would bring apples to my hand 
while I dream one million years in the pool. 

The soft voice of eerie Mercury light, 
which calls me from the book inside the sun, 
reflects strange face in mirror of the moon 
who sings to me before I wake at dawn 
each time I call to mother of the sky 
though I dream one million years in the pool. 

The wild explosion of the lightning strike, 
that curls around taut whirling of my heart, 
reveals stark truth of horror I accept 
when cannons blast the castle walls to dust 
that covers skull of my mother who sings 
as I dream one million years in the pool. 

Alone in rubble of the castle hall, 
I watch ten thousand silver ravens fly 
straight up across harsh buzzing of the sky, 
so I paint charging bulls on the cave wall 
to calculate dire wisdom of the rule 
how I dream one million years in the pool. 

While my mind glows hot as the burning bush 
with visions of some strange future I fear, 
Jesus escapes from bloody crucifix 
to tend my wounds with gentle healing touch, 
then takes my hand and bids me rise from death, 
yet I dream one million years in the pool. 

While human empires rise and fall in waves 
that wash around the world in bloody wars 
I stand on pyramid of the One Eye 
and write the names of the dead in my book 
which grows into enormous vampire god 
if I dream one million years in the pool. 

Along misty Sligachan River shore, 
that flows from pages of the ancient book, 
I walk toward castle of the Fairy Queen 
where Scathach invites me to eat and drink, 
so I play harp and chant weird spells that ask 
why I dream one million years in the pool. 

Why People Have To Die

Why People Have To Die
© Surazeus
2023 12 03

Through puzzling lucence of the pulsing Earth, 
swirled from combustion of gases and souls, 
nameless shadows of people I admire 
arrange themselves with meaning in my mind 
so I accept as facts we must discuss 
bewildering certainties of love and death. 

Long hours we wander barefoot by the sea 
we share confusing prayers for secret truth 
that only wordless waves would understand, 
contained in dreams of blind idealists 
who scatter cultural trash along the beach 
where optimism festers in tide pools. 

Hiding abstract rage in cool axioms 
that tangle human hearts with postulates, 
I try to fix the engine of the world 
that clacks with busted gears of principles 
no longer programmed to guide how we act 
with respect toward strangers in distant lands. 

My long unspoken hopes for global peace 
molder in fractured puddle by the road 
where children gather in blood-red sunset 
to place skulls of their parents on dry grass, 
then ask the trees why people have to die 
while kings in palaces eat apple pie. 

Because the mirror swallows my real face 
with each expression of justice I howl 
my tendency to prophesy the truth 
throws my body naked in the cold sea 
so I learn to swim on wings of desire 
as I sink deeper in abyss of doom. 

When I watch the dust mote balance on light 
with obvious metaphor of raven wings 
I feel my heart shoot arrow of contempt 
at careless fool whose actions cause me harm 
with ill intent to destroy all I build 
so they can claim my paradise as theirs. 

Since I repair the foundation of truth 
with complex principles that state old facts 
I fall in mute complacency of trust 
that all my actions cause good to occur 
to shore my heart against ruins of fear 
with each rocket that kills thousands of souls. 

When I portray our world without the fall 
to prove we ever rise from swirling seas 
I redesign ontology of faith 
that fuels my progress to the Promised Land 
as futile quest to build new paradise 
where every human lives with equal rights.