When I Find Eternity © Surazeus 2024 11 30 When I find eternity in white stone that glimmers on pebble beach by the lake, I stop walking somewhere else to sit still as the scraggly pine on thin spit of land that curves into strange greenness of water till white glow of the horizon is me. Each ripple of the silver-green lake lurks close enough to faint shadow of my soul that cry of sorrow stuck in my throat wails soft as the hawk floating above flat water to prove my existence is hard as stones that tingle with kiss of indifferent waves. Almost erased to glimmer of sunlight on flat lake stretching far across the sky, I hum sudden vibration in my chest that startles me with fear of something near, yet only trees on pebbled beach reply with silent innocence of my despair. Stones on the pebbled beach melt in my flesh till I become clump of soft clanking stones when I extend sharp beam of energy to stretch my arms and legs with ardency through urgent desperation to reclaim pain searing my body as mine alone. When I find eternity in dead tree that stretches twisted fingers at gray clouds, I hide in shadow of short lonely pine while soldiers in trucks rumble on the road to invade the city of bombed-out ruins where children carry skulls of long-dead gods. Poised with stiff stillness of the patient tree, I spear wriggling fish in flat silver lake, then roast it over flames of honesty to eat with zest in the desolate waste far from haze of bullets blasting soft flesh in war against cruel tyrant of despair. Caressing twisted fingers of bare trees, I recite verses from lost holy books to remember names of people I knew who have since vanished from dream of the world so they will reappear as leaves in spring to tell me how happy they want to be. When eternity finds me on the beach, she will smile and protect my soul from harm, so, many years after soldiers have died and bankers get rich selling broken land, she will find me meditating all day to contemplate the strange greenness of water.
Saturday, November 30, 2024
When I Find Eternity
Hall Of Your Skulls
Hall Of Your Skulls © Surazeus 2024 11 30 When I wake in cold barren hall of stone, I find my body is soil of the land tangled thick with herbs, vines, bushes, and trees, then drink from quick-flowing stream of my spine, my eyes as turtles, and my hands as birds, wrecked disarrangement of the gardener. When I stand up trembling in hall of glass, I breathe cracked granite cliff of mountain wind, bones rumbling in earthquake of my hot breath, heavy with boulders tossed by ocean waves which batter my body with arrogance, impossible disbursement of thick words. When I crawl heaps of books in hall of wood, I flutter wings of expanding desire, reshifting landscapes of cluttered-street towns that crumble from relentless hurricanes of wretched laughter at absurdity contrived by angels trying to build worlds. When I expand my soul in hall of masks, I replicate endless copies of self sewn from vibrating threads of psychic spells taut with intention to contaminate pure silt-shifting lake that swallows my dreams, yet reflects souls of people I invent. When I expel gloom from hall of contempt, I stretch old mangled body of dry hills along rugged coast of the sparkling sea where drowning mermaids sing forgotten names to resurrect confederacy of fools interned in valley of our laughing skulls. When I drift numb in hall of innocence, I become pregnant with billions of souls who crawl in tunnels of my milk-thick breasts then dance with ecstasy of aching hearts in gleaming moonlight of my watching eye till their bodies sink back into my pores. When I carve names in hall of marble walls, I wear mask of each human who has lived to experience each life ten million years who chase the sun to the end of the world as their bodies merge in children of hope and multiply again into one me. When I fall asleep in hall of your skulls, I dream creation of the universe when the first flash flares forth from the big bang to weave our lonely planet from star light so you and I can meet this fateful hour to sing together with love in our tower.
Strangeness Of Familiar Light
Strangeness Of Familiar Light © Surazeus 2024 11 30 I no longer hear sweet saints in the church singing hymns about that fantasy land they hope exists beyond this messy world where no one ever suffers pain or dies. I stand on street corners and play guitar about the mortal beauty of our souls. With slight adjustment of my attitude I now see this horrible messy world as beautiful as that fantasy land, and flawed mortal humans are now my saints. I wade out in the swirling ocean waves and float in strangeness of familiar light. Gathered around wood table in the park, we smear mayonnaise and mustard on buns with pickles, tomatoes, and lettuce leaves for hamburgers grilled over crackling flames. This family fellowship in the lake park on Sabbath afternoon is my paradise. Bright angels singing solemn hymns of love welcome every child ever born on Earth for we are all incarnations in flesh of that divine soul that glows in the sun. I see my mother in eyes of my child who grows to evolve beyond both of us. Farmers produce food from the soil of Earth, workers package food for the grocery stores, truckers deliver food to each small town, and mothers cook food for children to eat. We are angels loyal to paradise in our global food-production machine. After sharing our rich Thanksgiving feast, we sip wine as Phoebe plays haunting tunes on guitar deft as crows in freezing trees that leave us reluctant to say farewell. When I climb the mountain trail beyond clouds I see only the world I want to see. When snow begins to shroud crop fields in white, and birds desert the leafless trees of hope, we write to people who live far away so we all know the others are alive. I like the meaningless world where we live and tell each other stories of our faith. Assembled in cathedral of sunlight, we hear wingless angels in love-clean robes sing hymns to rebirth of the broken heart, while planes drop bombs on homes in distant lands. I carve names of the dead on mountain cliffs with runes that writhe with grace of apple snakes.
Only Myself In The Sky
Only Myself In The Sky © Surazeus 2024 11 30 What monsters haunt the jagged mountain cliff that juts in fractured jumble from the ridge I almost sense with ache of curious dread, so I pause with courage in grove of pines, determined to investigate their haunt and prove they are nothing but bears and wolves. Six days of cautious exploration proves this ancient forest of towering pines shelters no weird demons of fairy tales my mother read to me by candlelight, yet in the eerie gloom of absence I can sense faceless deity in fresh mountain air. Retreating from their cathedral-shaped woods, I fly with breathless laughter down steep slope to small church nestled by the sparkling lake where I change into my best silver suit and lead morning service with solemn hymn that reverences spirit of God in nature. Demonic agencies of hungry fear motivate poor people across the land, driven from safe shelter of their lost homes by faceless spirit of disruptive winds, to journey west in engine-chugging cars where they pick fruit in California fields. Convinced that faith in God will provide eyes of wisdom, designed with insight of truth, for poor people to secure strength of faith that fuels their ambition to score wealth, I work beside them in fields of dim hope and lead them in songs under dreadful stars. Gathered in circle around crackling flames, we lift our hands toward eerie purple sky that shimmers over distant golden hills, and pray to silent Heaven with raw faith for clear guidance of acceptable deeds maintaining dignity under cruel whips. Inspired by dream my service conjured bold, field workers unite with courage of faith to strike against oppressive practices, demanding better wages and more rest, but black wagons arrive and men with guns shoot the leaders who bleed in golden dust. Released from jail without criminal charge, I climb again to jagged mountain cliff that juts in fractured jumble from the ridge to seek with faith that ache of curious dread which lead me to see God in everything, but I find only myself in the sky.
Friday, November 29, 2024
Game Arcade Of America
Game Arcade Of America © Surazeus 2024 11 29 If book on the table in dreary glade considers how the radio ghost works, the red-winged blackbird on the broken door might find the wolf girl on the river shore and show her where the library boy lurks, face half hidden in the innocent shade. When the red-winged blackbird returns from Hell, she hops on tattered pages of the book to calculate how long the city grows prosperous because of wild vaudeville shows where the princess falls in love with the crook who hides her memories in the rune-phased well. Ignoring sweet temptations of the flesh, I try to meditate under the tree that curls roots around the nuclear bomb while the wolf girl sings the reverent psalm in honor of our lost democracy purchased by the blind businessman with cash. Eternal return in cycle of change decrees that the Devil will rise again every eighty years to challenge World God who falls defeated with his justice squad over right to control the minds of men, which nobody else seems to think is strange. Shouting outside the tear-streaked window pane, she tries to explain to the startled ghost that he is the king who was never born because his mother is still picking corn and his father repairs winds of the coast while I play guitar in the winter rain. My son wants to refurbish empty church with statues of all famous scientists whose riddles help save mankind from disease, but I just want to sit in the cool breeze so I can trust reports of journalists whose truth is based on objective research. Assigned to design methodology we can use to implement global peace, wolf girl marries library boy at dawn so no one can play with him as their pawn till the Devil signs one-hundred-year lease to cleanse Notre Dame of theology. My secret book of code in dreary glade releases demons of change in the world who crush all institutions of state power to centralize government in one tower where Queen Rapunzel and the cosmic herald turn America into a game arcade.
Spider-Watch Of My Soul
Spider-Watch Of My Soul © Surazeus 2024 11 29 My anxiety is the spider-watch, constructed of gold wheels that regulate conceptual motion of the universe, which crawls across the unread holy book full of riddles and sacred prophecies, to unscrew ticking time bomb of my brain. Just beyond the limit of my eyesight, I sense gold shadow of the spider-watch transform into the person I love most who keeps their name secret from everyone, so I pretend they are walking away while I search for the most important book. Because it seems someone is judging me within framework of their ontology, I avoid attending social events where people wear the most beautiful masks designed to replicate the spider-watch that emerges from egg-sea of my brain. Embracing substance of the shadow mind that swells within confines of my flesh soul, I drive up and down the same road each day in routine controlled by the spider-watch whose eyes are sunrays in leaves of the trees who weep for the tragedy of my fate. Each night when I sleep in cage of my heart, I dream I follow the wild-haired cave girl in our daily hunt to kill leaping deer and roast its thick meat over crackling flames, but then I see her stacking returned books in the quiet library with slim hands. Dancing with delicate balance of hope, in rhythm with beat of the spider-watch, I glide through open doors in maze of masks with turbo-charged energy of desire, to maintain integrity of One Self scattered into angelic butterflies. Strict balance of all forces in between constrains excessive swirl of urgent hope in measured cadence of the spider-watch which dictates how far beyond bounds of fate I can leap before gravity entraps my soul in limits of my body frame. My soul is emanation from my brain in divine consciousness of who I Am as function of chemicals flashing thoughts through neural network of oneiric nodes woven by passion of the spider-watch so anxiety drives progress of faith.
President Of Planet Earth
President Of Planet Earth © Surazeus 2024 11 29 When I hear the telephone ring again I wonder if God is still trying to call me because he wants me to play his messiah and save the world from greed of selfish tyrants, but I do not want to die on the cross, so I just let his call go to voice mail. I would rather go to the art museum and look at the tear-smeared swirls of color that hide the agony of human feelings which sting from gossip of the smarmy clowns who glare at me with harsh hostility then smile to my face with hypocrisy. Each person who passes me in the hall points to the blurry painting on the wall, and snickers with delight that it reflects confusing chaos of my cluttered mind, so I go down the endless stairs of buckets to find the plastic idol of my soul. Since my father is closing his restaurant where he sold fried fish for thirty-eight years, I search the storage room for secret treasure, but find photographs of our family under bags of rotten fish in the cooler, including one of me in my king costume. While driving Mercury Comet in the snow, to evade time warriors with laser rifles, I plow into the snow bank on the lawn and hit the statue of Saturn that falls crumbling into turtles who escape Hell, so the principle tells me to leave school. I almost join the police academy so I can beat criminals I despise, but I get conscripted into the army and sent to fight the enemy abroad, so I shoot at ghosts of Trojan warriors who celebrate the fall of America. Ambition discombobulates my mind with shiny delusion that I can win campaign for President of Planet Earth though assassins in shadows of your hearts keep shooting at the ghost of my contempt for the power of life and death I wield. When I find myself crowned King of the Earth, I try to abdicate office of greed, but my hands and legs are chained to the throne so I am forced to judge the right or wrong of every case brought to my divine court in my afternoon television show.
Accept The Nothingness
Accept The Nothingness © Surazeus 2024 11 29 When I sink in the black sea of my heart and disappear in strange sorrow of time, I chortle and go skipping down the street to prove to myself my misery is lame, since no one else can see angel of death who appears only in my cold-day breath. Stuck in the middle of the happy sea, alone in the lonely boat of desire, I search my leather bag for broken key that is supposed to open every door, till black shadow of death inside my heart plots new course on my upside-down star chart. Arriving on the muddy Texas shore, with nothing but resentment and despair, I open my used paperback book store where I serve sweet coffee and cake to lure shadow of Death away from customers so they can read in peace for thirty years. Trapped in my sad marriage thirty-nine years, I leave everything behind in the house and walk the signless road with clowns and queers who wake the tigress in the church-shy mouse, so, dressed like Marilyn Monroe, I sing about the pleasure of love that can sting. Stealing colt pistol from my ninth boyfriend, I walk one thousand miles in desert waste, telling vultures I want to meet James Bond, but I can never escape my dark past, so I ask Satan at the motel pool if he can pay for my graduate school. I want to earn my horse-nursing degree, learning how to whisper state secret codes, since I hope that Pecos Bill will hire me, but I wander in swamp of Buddha Toads who chant that the secret to happiness is let go and accept the nothingness. Weird randomness of events in my life convince me God is playing jokes on me, so I tell Jesus I want to be his wife, but he just says the truth will set me free, so I wear mask of Jackie Kennedy to reign as Dragon Queen of Xanadu. Now that I am near the end of my play, I remove ten thousand masks of dead ghosts but never find my own real secret face, till Lucifer explains what true love costs, so I hold hands with Death at the last hour, safe at last as Rapunzel in my tower.
Thursday, November 28, 2024
River-Cave Girl
River-Cave Girl © Surazeus 2024 11 28 The yellow-bellied kingbird on phone wire, as tyrant of my melancholy soul who darts quick as lightning to catch the fly, waits for me to follow her flashing tail down winding pathway into gloomy Hell in dusty open-pit mine of despair. Approaching gates of twisted iron bars, that creak in howling wind of everywhere, I crouch when Beelzebub, Lord of the Flies, sends howling swarm of insects at my face, so I shield my face against stinging rage, but horror of their hate pushes me back. Then River-Cave Girl wearing wolf-fur cloak grasps torch of freedom from pit of despair she swirls to scatter insects from my soul, then takes my hand and leads me running swift around chromatic pools of minerals safe to small grotto of bright emeralds. Each time grim monster of my chthonic mind looms from dark shadows of my unnamed fears my gentle guide helps me evade its rage with clever tricks of misguiding disguise, so we journey through caverns of illusions safe home to mist-sprinkled Asphodel Meadows. Waking from strange dream in afternoon glow, I sit up straight in my stiff wooden chair and glance around gold-lit library hall where students intently study textbooks, then focus my attention once again on psychic tropes in Victorian epic poems. Yet from periphery of distracted sight, I sense the river-cave girl of my dream in close proximity to my sad heart, so I clandestinely investigate, and see her now dressed as Library Girl with yellow sweater and forest-green skirt. Those eyes that see beyond devilish masks, and hands that clear my way in bitter Hell, are now incarnate in this living girl whose sudden glance my way pierces my heart with noble purpose to protect the world so she may live forever safe and free. Gathering my books at the closing bell, I wander slowly past the check-out desk, and blush when Library Girl smiles at me and gives me paper with her username to follow her on social media sites, then I stride out into the starry night.
Vintage Of Her Heart
Vintage Of Her Heart © Surazeus 2024 11 28 Barefoot in white lace gown of morning light, she sits among rain-wet vines on the hillside and sings ethereal melody of love that makes the whole vineyard tremble awake in swirling ululations of pure joy that fills each grape with liquid of the stars. While birds in trees chirp moon-sweet melodies, she crawls among long curling vines of grapes, asking each one how it feels, then she turns at shimmer of hope to see wavering ghost of Bacchus dancing with slow graceful care, hands caressing each vine to bless its soul. The owl with eyes from children who died young, that weeps in glass cathedral on the moon, scatters raindrops on hills where bones of gods nourish roots of grape vines with earnest hope that flows up branches writhing with fierce angst to spread angelic wings in broad green leaves. Silver mist floats swirling over lush hills, rainbow eyes sparkling with pleasant delight as wet lips kiss each plump grape on its vine that rings soft high-toned bell of tingling faith when sunbeams stream ninety-one million miles to weave immortal light in pungent juice. Eyes gleaming green as hills of curling vines, Bacchus prances with herd of hopping goats, and breathes ethereal melody of joy through pan pipes wailing eerie in hot wind, while Ariadne lies spread-eagled on the slope, arms open to embrace his swirling soul. Breasts rising round as hills of webbing vines, Ariadne swells huge as broad river vales, skin bristling with grape vines that spiral high to shroud our spinning globe in web of souls which undulate through matrix of our minds when we drink spirit of love in her wine. Slouched over wood table in cellar room, lit by candles flickering in curious gloom, she mixes wine in bottles of desire to test restructured flavor of sunlight till she tastes ancient spirit of the hills brewed in time-bubbling vintage of her heart. Striding among grape vines on sunlit slopes, dressed in wolf-fur cloak of River-Cave Girl, Ariadne spreads angelic wings of joy and calls to Rapunzel in tower of stone who throws books out the window of despair which transform into Bacchus dancing wild.
All I Build Vanishes
All I Build Vanishes © Surazeus 2024 11 28 Not satisfied with how the world will end, consumed by the quickly expanding sun which will erase everything we create, I create more art with my anxious hands to build vast thousand-mile temple of tales, transforming deserts into gardenscapes. Transforming Earth from natural flowing hills into steel-skeletoned metropolis encasing the entire globe in maze of streets, we fragile humans, seeking to assert God-given right to rule this spinning globe, construct Trantor to protect paradise. Though we erect enormous halls of beauty filled with elegant statues carved of marble to glorify every great human soul who contributes to world civilization, the expanding sun will erase it all, incinerating all our art to ash. All our cathedrals, mosques, temples, and halls, designed with extravagant ornaments expressing passionate love of our hearts that lifts our spirits from this suffering world, will be crushed by waves of hot energy like castles of sand the tides sweep away. For now the vast cities humans construct are frail webs of steel over rolling hills, small and few between endless desertscapes, so I walk muddy field after drenching rain to blaze new signless road across the plain, and stop to see my face in pool of light. I cannot see the path of my own life for all its winding randomness remains behind me as I keep walking forward to evade flowing void of nothingness ever encroaching on my paradise till all I build vanishes in the past. Ten thousand years ago of spinning time we gathered in mall circles on vast plains to dance wild around blazing light of hope, and share tales of our experiences to build ontology of natural truth our prophets wrote in scriptures of our faith. Alone in homes of our vast city maze we deconstruct ontology they built to analyze conceptual dream programs so we can construct new global world view to sing beautiful hymns in halls of truth till our expanding sun destroys it all.
Our Thanksgiving Meals
Our Thanksgiving Meals © Surazeus 2024 11 28 The yellow banana taped to the wall lures me straight into its conceptual trap when I think about all the governments our intelligence agents overthrew so banana republics would obey kings of fruit companies raking in cash. People who control land producing fruit feast in halls of power with mirror walls that reflect beauty of their privilege while immigrants from southern jungle hills, controlled by gangsters selling cash cocaine, pick crops we eat at our Thanksgiving meals. These propaganda images reveal unequal status that always prevails between those whose ancestors stole the land and those whose hands produce food we eat, so we gather to watch the football game where Cowboys always beat the Indians. After we stop beating each other up with guilt trips for crimes our ancestors did, we can watch the new superhero film where Captain America saves the world from monstrous aliens who suck our souls, then pray for Jesus to return to Earth. When ship I sail across Atlantic waves splinters on reefs off lush welcoming shores, I swim through curling surge of futile hope to stand gasping for breath on moon-gold sand, then search for Liberty on pyramid holding Light of Freedom and Book of Names. Bright beacon of Liberty shines in gloom that guides my rough way across the waste land to build in land of opportunity new way of life where I keep what I earn after escaping tyranny of kings who fight each other for the Crown of Christ. Throw all these bromides in the swirling sea to banish Hope that blinds my eager eyes so I can steal land in the wilderness to replace land the king stole from my clan and build new Eden in the Promised Land till the tyrant comes and steals that land too. I have wandered lands of Zarathia four hundred years from sea to shining sea, but still I am the homeless refugee forever searching for the Holy Grail that glows in hands of the woman I love who prepares feast for us to share in thanks.
Wednesday, November 27, 2024
House Where I Never Lived
House Where I Never Lived © Surazeus 2024 11 27 I ride the bus far across town at noon to visit the house where I never lived with the vague intention of finding things I left behind in boxes of lost truths, but every photo of me I can find reveals rotten sorrow of the dead tree. I throw my useless memories in the trash to forget how many years have now passed since I went to live in the empty church where I keep attempting to talk to God, but he always hangs up the telephone and tells me not to call him anymore. Apple trees blossom on the river shore from ancient conviction that I deserve love from strangers who try to steal my name though I give them every heart I can find stuck inside the fractured stone of lost faith since I leave out the riddle no one solves. Each time we stand in the forest and talk about things that happened since we last met I leave out so many painful events that flutter as leaves on the reborn trees with amazement at beauty of despair which I try to sell in the marketplace. Though the bird that still lives inside my heart beats crippled wings against my fragile skull, I cannot open the cage of my ribs to let my happiness fly free of rage which I encase in walking stick of fear to help me walk to where I do not live. The stories I tell the stop sign are not about the passion of my love for you which I hide in letters I never mail, yet someone down the street is calling me, mad at me about something I once did, so I leave my new shoes under the swing. After visiting every lonely house where I once lived in my journey nowhere, I decide to walk the nameless highway and leave letters I wrote to you in grass where they become bears, horses, wolves, and deer who sit around the television set. In my mind I will fly into the sky so I can ask the divine cloud man why I am always alone in dream of Earth without calculating what hope is worth, then I will eat the apple of my heart so I can change fortune of my star chart.
Play The Cosmic Herald
Play The Cosmic Herald © Surazeus 2024 11 27 Though autumn leaves bury my empty grave, erasing me from memory of the world, I dance free and alive in the dream cave, ready at last to play the cosmic herald by appearing in cathedral of ghosts to prophesy rise of the Lord of Hosts. Though presidents crown themselves tyrant kings to divide all the nations of the world and exploit the poor while the devil sings, dictators tremble when the cosmic herald arrests their tyranny with global laws to protect Liberty and her noble cause. Though oligarchs organize mafia gangs to control rich resources of the world, democracy will survive harsh birth pangs with vital support of the cosmic herald, at least I hope that Freedom will prevail against fascist theft that should always fail. Though storm of tyranny looms in the sky, almost snuffing out freedom in the world, we unite in cathedral of the spy who incarnates soul of the cosmic herald to defend United Nations of Earth so women are free to choose giving birth. Though harsh winds of anger and racist hate batter every humble home in the world, we define our future to feature fate through social reforms of the cosmic herald based on mutual compassionate respect that nurtures our democratic project. Though angry dictator on throne of gold rages that many countries of the world live free from vile scam he once thought he sold, we rally around the brave cosmic herald and fight to hurl his gang back to Hell so freedom-lovers can live on Earth well. Though gray-eyed Odin on the misty moor gathers heroes from each land of the world, he teaches me to forge key for each door so when I wear mask of the cosmic herald I can defeat puppets of tyranny for humans who prefer democracy. Though I wander lost in waste land of fear at forces of greed that assault the world, I trust Hidden Dragon whose hands will steer ship of state, captained by the cosmic herald, safe to paradise we create with trust, knowing every creature returns to dust.
Ghosts Of Tyrannical Kings
Ghosts Of Tyrannical Kings © Surazeus 2024 11 27 Though our fertile land of democracy has nurtured Liberty four centuries, ghosts of tyrannical kings haunt our hearts when greedy men grasping to control power rise from cathedral tombs of rotting corpses with thirst to exploit our labor for wealth. Dynastic clans across kingdoms of Europe grappled to control fertile river valleys through marriage alliances based on greed till cousins fought each other in world wars and shattered old system of castle thrones to free the people from their tyranny. Refugees who fled cruel religious wars established system of democracy where every person enjoyed privilege of civil liberties to exercise right to vote wise representatives funding programs that build justice for all. Now solid institutions of our state, geared to function despite each regime change, based on constitution of honest laws instead of individuals seeking power, are toppling from forces of selfish greed asserted by obsessive oligarchs. I want to save our nation from attack by thieves disguised as bankrolled businessmen who strive to deregulate structured laws designed to check monopoly of power, but I am just one person in this land, outnumbered by privileged nationalists. Appointing himself dictator for life, Caesar reached for long-unworn crown of power snatched from cruel rapist, Tarquin the Proud, so Brutus conspired to arrest his grasp by implementing solution of justice to prevent tyrants from grasping control. Now ghost of Tarquin haunts America in haughty Caesar blustering foul decrees with puffed-up arrogance of Mussolini, declaring himself messiah returned to reign with strength by blessing of fake Christ after snatching prize of the Golden Bough. All tyrants who climb pinnacle of power, Hitler, Stalin, Hussein, Gaddafi, and more, fall from Heaven with spectacular disgrace, and tumble into waste land of history to rot with head of Ozymandias, which preserves progress of democracy.
Cleansed Of Civilized Grit
Cleansed Of Civilized Grit © Surazeus 2024 11 27 Grit from factories and steel mills pervades sinews of my soul with star-flashing chains that bind my soul to engine of my car I drive on asphalt highways of desire that leaves flakes of my memories by the road where they sprout into time-enduring weeds. Hot waves of sunlight beat the pavement black when I park at gas station in the desert, and drink hot water from the plastic hose, while flies buzz around my sweat-plastered hair, and gas fumes vibrate against my parched face as I fill tin tank with fuel for my quest. Rubber wheels grind gravel on dusty road that winds wide around desolate orange buttes, slipping as I maneuver bouncing car past crowds of cactus and clumps of mesquite to baked-clay ruins of some ancient town built long endless thousands of years ago. I hear no western-movie guitar twang eerie with danger when I stride thin path between stubborn walls of now-empty homes full of skeletons that crumbled to dust, to climb steep mound dizzy with anxious hope for panoramic view of river plains. I half expect the turtle resting still, cool under tangled mat of purple aster, to ask me for the purpose of my quest, but no supernatural sprites visit me, so I tell ghost of the wind why I came, but she just kisses me with subtle breath. My quest to find true spirit of this world fails to impress the turtle or the hills, so I relax in meditative stance and breathe deep hot air of the desert soul while palming hands before my beating heart to release constraints of imagined fear. When twilight casts dark purple veil of faith to shroud my soul among the ancient ruins, I see emerge from shadow of the world demonic owl-shaped figure with gold eyes that soaks my anxious visions from my mind till I shiver empty under bright stars. Waking at thin gleam of pink light at dawn, I look around for traces of the owl, but sense with courage of forbidden truth her immortal spirit dwells in my heart, so I descend dim mountain of the demon and drive home well cleansed of civilized grit.
Tuesday, November 26, 2024
Words Of The Prophets
Words Of The Prophets © Surazeus 2024 11 26 When the words of the prophets, we forgot were written on the subway walls in blood, are erased by white paint of silence and lies, we find them burning truer in our hearts, so we gather in ruins of our city to sing them with loud voices of despair. Though we are stripped of social uniforms by constant bombings from planes in the sky, we gather naked in the city square around the fountain clogged with skulls of gods, and give each other new names of the dead so we can call each other in the gloom. Though creeping in cold darkness of the world where ghosts of our ancestors urge our progress, we plant seeds of lost hope in bloody earth and tend fruit trees that sprout from bleak despair till ruined city transforms into woods where ten thousand people search for the truth. After fall of the neon god we made, we teach each other with new words me dream to reach each other with new arms of faith, and share fresh tales of wisdom from the well that echoes with new voices we inspire as we disturb the silence of despair. No longer do we walk dark streets alone, our eyes no longer blinded by harsh truth, for we hold hands in meadows brimming flowers that bloom in ruins of cathedral halls to feast in lobbies of abandoned banks while sharing songs we write with voice of love. Though old and weary Columbia died when American Republic collapsed, young and vigorous Zarathia strides with courage of the visionary seer to lead us from stark ruins of our past so we can build new nation of our future. Liberty holds Torch of Freedom high and bears Book of Wisdom at her breast, so we bid darkness of despair farewell to fulfill new vision that dispels gloom which guides our journey to the Promised Land where everyone is equal in the law. No longer do the people bow or pray to false gods of oppressive monarchy for we now heed the warning on the wall when prophets sing new tales of bravery where we live as we will, if we harm none, through fellowship of our democracy.
Beauty Of The Stars
Beauty Of The Stars © Surazeus 2024 11 26 While trudging cement streets among steel towers, I look up beyond large engine-rumbling cars to see past wires and advertising signs graceful figure of Kwan Yin in silk gown floating through sun-illuminated clouds whose black eyes blaze with beauty of the stars. Elegant Goddess of Mercy extends ten billion hands that glow with pearls of light to bless each human trudging on the Earth with heavenly bliss of enchanting love that fills our hearts with joyful breath of life so we all sing with beauty of the stars. The woman huddled in apartment room after escaping her abusive husband feels depressive cloud of misery lift at sudden gleam of merciful respect that dispels ache of regret from her heart so she smiles softly with beauty of the stars. The old man crouched in dirty alleyway behind the clean bank where he used to work, shivers with feverish hunger for bread, yet feels strange glow of sorrow in his chest swell into compassion of honest hope when he contemplates beauty of the stars. The little girl hiding in hollow cave formed by rubble heap of her bombed-out home pulls tattered shawl tighter around her shoulder as she eats apple sauce from opened can and smiles at near-fleshless skull of her mother while she sings about beauty of the stars. The young man clutching rifle to his chest tells rotting corpses of his wife and children the Russian tanks rumbling past did not crush apple trees they planted two years ago, then he hurls grenade which blows up the tank in red blossom with beauty of the stars. The young nurse, relaxing after hard work all day at the hospital, wipes her eyes of bitter tears while her three children play with coloring books in the evening dusk, then sighs and writes poem about motherhood which highlights secret beauty of the stars. Gliding on cloud of mercy around Earth, Kwan Yin beams warm rays of heart-healing love to ease our suffering of loss and despair, so billions of people raise up their eyes to see her spirit turning pain to pleasure which lights our world with beauty of the stars.
Build New World Order
Build New World Order © Surazeus 2024 11 26 Facetious agony of honest truth cannot defeat me with realistic state unfractured by words children replicate when they sell lemonade at the roadside booth to pay off the national deficit by reinventing the dream alphabet. Just as I think my heart no hollow more could be from suffering of the human race, I stumble in bleak church of the God Face that glares at me with judgment to the core, so I laugh at absurdity of life that rewards nothing for enduring strife. With tinge of satire staining my work coat, I hammer nails in structure of the mind to build new world order my wife designed when she transformed me from the lazy goat, though I return to Bacchanalian rite when angels drop bombs on my town each night. Come, let us for the Fatherland now fight against the tyrant and his haughty pride because no one is ever on his side except those for whom grand virtue is trite, so I hide hawk of my heart in the stone and report to work as the mindless drone. Evading eyes of Big Brother each day, I play chess with Death on the beach of fate instead of cheering at Two Minutes Hate for demise of the Brotherhood who pray to Spirit in the Sky I call my friend though he is nothing but cool gust of wind. The Day of Glory will never arrive while Tyranny trashes our government till we agree to the New Covenant opposing fascist tricksters who connive to funnel tax dollars to bank accounts they hide in palaces under seamounts. When star of wisdom crashes into Earth, Arthur forges meteor into honed sword he wields to ensure justice as Loaf-Ward while seeking Holy Grail of second birth by leading us to fight the gold robot whose pirate gang has taken Camelot. After Daniel, who was cast in the den, tames lion heart of Durga as his bride, they topple statue for the King of Pride so we can meditate through State of Zen on glowing Pyramid of the God Eye so young children feel free to question why.
Monday, November 25, 2024
Too Painful To Express
Too Painful To Express © Surazeus 2024 11 25 Too painful to express in crippled words, her feelings hide in shadow of the stone that slowly rolls with current of the stream, then floats alone to bottom of the sea where pressure of despair cracks her frail heart awake with passion of the singing moon. Too painful to express with wings of birds, her feelings rise on Phoenix wings of bone spread wide to cover landscape of her dream where she climbs mountain of hope with the key that opens doors she finds on the star chart designed by Death to imitate her tune. Too painful to express in somber verse, her feelings crawl from paved floor of the church escaping cave of Hell on jagged claws by scuttling quick across the stark abyss, then rising tall in jeweled gown of pride to rule as Empress of the Easter Reich. Too painful to express with stride of mares, her feelings curl with kittens on the porch intense with fortune of the primal cause blind gods employ to encourage the kiss lovers share at crowning of the world bride who then decides to play the role of Psyche. Too painful to express in clever jokes, her feelings bleed as tattoos on her breast when she must fight the wolf inside her home who dares invade safe haven of her faith till she defeats and slays him with her wit, then wears wolf-fur cloak to the winter ball. Too painful to express with limbs of oaks, her feelings spur growth in her sacred quest to escape palace life under gold dome and seek demonic wisdom of the wraith that aids her fight against the hypocrite whose foul crimes are smeared with blood on the wall. Too painful to express in devout prayers, her feelings writhe from dragon egg of power through revelation of the tyrant god, so she wears armor of angelic force to play Minerva on the global stage who wields fair-dealing sword of Liberty. Too painful to express with flight of stairs, her feelings transcend confines of the tower so she convenes new global Justice Squad to find spring of our political source, and through grand vision of our new world age she wields wise scripture of democracy.
Topple Statue Of Arrogance
Topple Statue Of Arrogance © Surazeus 2024 11 25 Triumphant tragedy of tyranny marches morbidly with martial disdain of bloody boots in marble halls of power, smearing deceptive lies of arrogance across grand portraits of our Founding Fathers, who rise from Hell to haunt the haughty tyrant. Though trumpets of christian nationalist pride blare against Capitol of Jericho, the sturdy walls of brave democracy will never fall before cruel tyranny, no matter how loudly with feral hate the traitor bloviates against our faith. United with passion for truth, our hearts resist aggressive obsession of greed with stoic calm of faith in timeless Right that justice will prevail against foul crime since we secure liminal space of truth in steady progress to build Liberty. Secure with communal authority that overspeaks lust of royal commands, we maintain core principles of the Right for strict status of the good character to earn potent office in government based on attention to the common good. When Goliath lumbers toward the White House, declaring victory of electoral votes voiced by the angry-mob majority, we call for humble Shepherd armed with hope to emerge from Cave of the Spider Web and strike the tyrant down with stone of truth. This hour grows dark when Midas, urged by rage, steals crown of thorns from bloody head of Christ to crown himself new Emperor of Earth, but history shows that tyrants puffed with pride who overreach the heavenly mandate crumble with feet of clay in dust of time. Though swallowed by the whale of divine fate when I tried to flee collapse of our state, I will sit by locked Gate of Paradise and preach corruption of America, though in this drama King of Nineveh will not kneel down to repent of his crimes. Though some call for Brutus to implement drastic method against dictatorship, we pray for subtle hand of Azrael to give Sisyphus stone of honest fate that would topple statue of arrogance and free our nation from foul tyranny.
Guard Of Travelers
Guard Of Travelers © Surazeus 2024 11 25 Though I want to be the most beautiful and perfect being who exists in this world, I accept that my soul is flawed and frail, imperfect example of the ideal I wish to embody with divine glow that shines as beacon on the dark seashore. I want to be bright light on the dark shore which guides the lost to my sheltering door so they find warmth under roof of my care, relaxing by the safe hearth of my heart where they may feast on good food I prepare and drink healthy juice from my holy grail. When people travel on the seashore road, each traveler bearing some heavy load, I bid them stop and relax in strong shed one hour from heat of the sun overhead, giving them water as they lie in bed, then cheer them with joy as they forge ahead. While travelers lounge around the fire at night, I strum the lyre of Mercury just right to lead their souls soaring with dreamy flight as I recount tales of heroes who fight with graceful strength that awes us with delight so they rest secure till gleam of dawn light. When gangs of thieves with no respect for life surround good travelers with spear and knife, I race to defend them with righteous strife, securing freedom for both man and wife, for I protect the innocent and good who journey cautious in the dangerous wood. Bring to my marble temple on the hill your best animal as the sacrifice expressing loyalty of your free will, and I will roast it on the altar grill, sprinkling fresh steak with herbal sauce and spice so you may feast in peace where the gods dwell. That generous age that is now long lost I reigned in grand temple of Jupiter as guard of travelers and honest host who runs hotel, hospital, and night club in sanctuary haven for the ghost with attentive care to what you need most. Our globe is now cluttered with empire states that afford special citizenship rights to people who control the wealth through land, yet millions wander lost as refugees, pausing on mountain roads in the breeze where I can no longer guard them from harm.
Sunday, November 24, 2024
Faceless God Of Faith
Faceless God Of Faith © Surazeus 2024 11 24 Each flash of sorrow in puddle of time diminishes knowledge of ticking clocks ungeared with measureless words of false hope, so she stumbles onward toward somewhere else still clutching the book about broken walls that she stole from the faceless god of faith. Gazing out the clean window of respect, with eyes she borrows from cynical crows, she counts the people in the parking lot who come to the hospital of the damned with good intentions to monetize health everyone pays the faceless god of faith. Reluctant to return the flowered dress she received from her mother after Christmas, she erases her name and date of birth from every legal document she finds to prove she no longer exists in game of death played by the faceless god of faith. Too terrified to open the red door that always reveals scenes of harsh abuse, she eats pink jasmine-scented scroll of verse she wrote from song of angels in her heart, then walks the signless road of anywhere to give mask to the faceless god of faith. She knows what I am capable of doing so she beams my shadow of fleshy words back through huge mirror of infinity that stretches bounds of possibilities huge as the network in my tangled mind, brain designed by the faceless god of faith. Eligible for entering gate of Heaven without extensive documents of dreams trampled to grapes of wrath by ardency, she tries to sell my obvious book of spells to the oak tree who gives her key of thoughts while evading the faceless god of faith. Attempting to organize her weird thoughts in accordance with law of averages to comply with regulations of trust, she stops abruptly on the signless road to ask the raven why she is not lost who has become the faceless god of faith. Honored to be crowned Princess of the Moon, who keeps the tarot cards of faith that read have mercy on soul of the cosmic herald, she announces she will marry the fool who stops himself from walking off the cliff in bid to cheat the faceless god of faith.
Destroy Palace Of Mirrors
Destroy Palace Of Mirrors © Surazeus 2024 11 24 While walking down the crowded city street, I find wounded words scattered on the ground that people spit with flag-waving contempt after chewing bitter hatred with rage, tiny sluggish demons writhing with fear, squished again by indifferent footsteps. If words of hatred they spit on the ground congeal into monstrous form of despair, they would transform into blind dinosaur larger than Godzilla, fueled by contempt, that would rampage across America, crushing institutions with hungry greed. Loyal patriotic angels in suits, commissioned to defend America as democratic republic from harm, still pledge allegiance to the Stars and Stripes and the Constitution for which it stands, then fly planes to attack monster of hate. Shooting missiles of patriotic pride in land of the free and home of the brave, noble angels, dedicated to truth through justice for all based on liberty, fight monster of hate born from tyranny to destroy his nest in palace of greed. Missiles hurled by the hand of Jupiter, soaring in Heaven with attentive faith, destroy palace of mirrors with respect to save America from tyranny, for since we freed our souls from monarchy we fight to defend our democracy. Though monsters of hate loom over our land, given form by fear brewing in their hearts, fueled by rage at loss of privilege enforced by legal system of control exploiting working people to gain wealth, chimes of freedom still ring within our hearts. Lead by Liberty holding Torch of Truth, who waves our flag above turmoil of fear, we join her noble cause with hearts of love to fight for the freedom of every soul to live well as they will, if they harm none, with justice for all in America. Even though the monster of hate grows huge, and tyrant of greed appears to be strong, his rage that requires energy of fear will dissipate with turning of the world, and statue of his power fall in ruins, for long Freedom reigns in America.
Cold Waves Of Fate
Cold Waves Of Fate © Surazeus 2024 11 24 Their frail boat almost tilts against the tide each time the monster mountain of the sky dares to question why they are where they are, as if they have ability to choose where they will go against the winds of fate when others seem to choose how we will live. The old woman gives apple to young girl, and asks if she wants to be the wife controlled by the man holding her with pride, and she beams as she explains with sweet voice that she chose to leave her old family farm and travel with him to the Promised Land. Tears stream down her cheeks as she smiles with joy, but the old woman mumbles and declares, I did not choose the life I had to live, raising seven children on the sheep farm, spending all day cooking and cleaning house, and praying I would not die from his fist. When I was young and eager to live well, strolling to the grand college by the lake where I was learning how to write and draw, the old grim shepherd snatched in his arms and dragged me to his cottage in the hills where he forced me to bear child of his greed. Because the shepherd forced his will on me, my father, honest rector of the parish, forced me to marry in secretive haste that cruel man who kidnapped me from my life, and so from heavenly garden of art I was thrust into hell of howling devils. Like Persephone, pretty Queen of Hades, dragged by the selfish monster of desire from flowered fields of carefree joy in life, I had to rule the devils in my hell with resentful discipline of the slave forced to live against her own free will. Last week I escaped from that cluttered house, after twenty years of mind-crippling fear slaving trapped in harsh domestic routine, so like you I am escaping this land to sail across the wild Atlantic sea for new paradise in the Promised Land. Wild gust of wind sweeping down rugged hills swamps their frail boat in the surging tide, dumping everyone in cold waves of fate, and though the young girl grasps her withered hand the old woman sinks down into dark gloom, then she weeps on the shore, cursing God blind.
Second Coming Of Christ
Second Coming Of Christ © Surazeus 2024 11 24 Though every day seems like the end of time globe of Earth keeps spinning around the sun so I remember evolving from slime with force that drives progress of my life-run leaping through portals of the multiverse to generate life through the cosmic nurse. If every day seems like the end of time I kneel before tyrant God on gold throne and pray with ringing of the crystal chime for grace to keep rolling the psychic stone to top of the hill where the Muses sing about the hero and his crippled wing. Since every day seems like the end of time I perform role of my heart with grand charm in theater of power as the mime who plays Apollo working on his farm while writing complete history of the world from fall of mad kings to the cosmic herald. While every day seems like the end of time we keep getting up and going to work producing wealth of love and stopping crime then drinking at the bar where prophets lurk ready to proclaim the apocalypse at second coming of Christ in starships.
Saturday, November 23, 2024
Well Of My Breath
Well Of My Breath © Surazeus 2024 11 23 When I look into the well of my breath, I feel strange spirit of the Earth flow bright with hazardous desire for tranquil seas that measure vastness of my dreaming mind contained in shimmer of the river stone fractured by holy words I dare to speak. When the white crow that knows my secret name brings me black berries of the camphor tree, ancient voice in my spine sings about Death, though I sink deeper in silence of time till I breathe spirit of the fractured stone to keep my words hidden in unread books. When my blind mother decides to collect orange blossoms with souls only she can feel, I walk around the universal tree backward in time to before our sunrise when I smell thoughts of sirens in the swamp who call me to come and join their sweet choir. When I paint concept of the silver moon as starfish who prays to the lonely tides, I feel souls of strangers hidden in stones wake as my best friends I knew long ago before we built the bridge across the swamp, then pose for photos in the afternoon. When the toad hops across the kitchen floor, she searches false library by the sea for the mask her mother made from the tree that always asks about the words of bees, but instead she gives books of jeweled words to children who ask for apples instead. When the spider of light crawls on my eye at sudden flash of insight about love, I remember the first person I meet after I emerge from the fractured stone and breathe my soul into the empty sky where it congeals in words and becomes God. When they give me face they want me to wear, I tear it into poems of holy faith and throw them all in the crocodile lake till the ibis teaches me how to write stories that conceal what I really feel by twisting them into amusing jokes. When I find photos of my family, I erase their names and their dates of birth so they can fly away as butterflies that flutter around the old camphor tree where I lounge forgotten in its cool shade to escape the misunderstanding trap.
Queen Of The Jungle
Queen Of The Jungle © Surazeus 2024 11 23 Though evening gloom veils trees in quietude I gaze in limpid pool of your heart where words of joy we share gleam bright as stars that guide us to our shared liminal space during initial stage of our romance as we kiss under wisteria blooms. While Sylphus in short loincloth of wolf skin, draped in wisteria and willow leaves, dances around limpid pool of desire with rakish puissance of jaunty disdain, he almost escapes gravity of Earth but tumbles into arms of Sycorax. Eerie caw of the hyacinthine macaw echoes in groves of mahogany trees as pale-skin Sylphus with bouncy blond curls twirls on tall smooth stone by the limpid pool reflecting silver sky of diamond eyes while Sycorax watches with loving gaze. While Sycorax plays haunting melodies on long flute carved from cocobolo wood, Sylphus weaves coronet from eglantine, rosemary, lavender, and berry vines, then crowns large red-skin woman with black eyes queen of the jungle full of sparkling sprites. Embraced with passion in the misty vale, Sylphus and Sycorax make love in beams of moonlight glowing in the limpid pool where turtles glide past purple-cap mushrooms and toads sing beauty of the universe till their bodies flash with glow of the stars. Black boots crush fragile flowers and fruit vines when Captain Bruno Silva from Brasilia barges into grove of their secret home, curses at his son Sylphus with disgust that he fathered half-breed mutt with that witch, then aims rifle to kill mother and child. Leaping on spritely wings of Ariel, brave Sylphus places his body as shield guarding spirit of lush Edenic land from exploitation of commercial greed, so his father growls with rage and retreats, plotting other ways to possess rich hills. Traveling with thousands of refugees to escape gangs terrorizing their towns, Sylphus and Sycorax, with new-born child, cross the rugged roadless Darien Gap to find better lives in the Promised Land picking peaches in bright orchards of Georgia.
Angels In Exploding Caves
Angels In Exploding Caves © Surazeus 2024 11 23 Heart-mending beauty of the world on fire tricks me into singing with the mute choir holy hymns that harmonize with machines consistent with the old man counting beans to build great empire on the backs of slaves who dance with angels in exploding caves. Because America is beautiful I attend math classes in empty school so when I play chess with Death on the beach I will not be the economic leech the businessman accuses me of being till I sell him the plastic devil wing. Aesthetic beauty in each work of art is calculated through the psychic chart based on ripe banana taped to the wall as warning that the stock market will fall with each transaction logged in the dream book if diners praise the legendary cook. Regret for many foolish things I did frees me from obligations to El Cid for helping his crusade to conquer hate that fools bankers to think they outwit fate when they pay insurance for shipping boats since their grandfathers herded mountain goats. Though America may collapse from greed social rebirth is contained in the seed, yet still I laugh at how conservatives got played by sly Pluto whose trick deceives their minds in thinking Midas the Thief will save their empire from religious grief. I stroll streets of Athens in autumn wind to comprehend how mind-space makes light bend through curving continuum of my brain that always plots how to increase my gain so I control the land with bloody sword or hang out on the beach when I am bored. When Thespis stands on stage of social truth he wears gaudy mask of messiah sleuth to play Dionysus in game of thrones through revolution of the rolling stones that crushes institutions of our state by smashing open the paradise gate. Though America falls in civil war we will rebuild the hyperdrive warp core to spread democracy around the world so tyrants cower before cosmic herald resurrected as the Many-Faced God who fights for freedom with the Justice Squad.
Transpersona Shapeshifters
Transpersona Shapeshifters © Surazeus 2024 11 23 We humans are transpersona shapeshifters, performing roles of different characters distinct from features of gender and race, and even species, designed by our genes when Nature stamps our biological form with skills fit to survive our environment. Each person with specific attributes, produced by genes their ancestors designed by surviving natural environments, creates persona based on social roles provided by their tribe community to perform duties that sustain the group. All species who have evolved from the ocean developed two genders to reproduce variations of their bodies to achieve greater success incarnating their forms where males provide sperm that fertilize eggs females nurse into functioning adults. Humans who survive best in river valleys perform standard roles of male and female where mothers bear and raise children with love, teaching them to express their thoughts in words, while fathers hunt for food and guard their clans by building haven to support their growth. Some humans are born with variant forms ambiguous for which role they have to play, while others wake with dream-evolving brains that perceive spiritual energy of hope which motivates actions creatures perform, so they become transpersona shapeshifters. Shamans wearing skins of wild animals they killed in vicious battle to the death shapeshift into persona of the demon that haunts the tribe to dispel all their fears till we humans kill monsters of the wild by wearing mask of the devil we fear. With expanding hierarchies of state power humans wear elaborate persona costumes to perform grand roles of authority, priests of religions, or kings of empires, now presidents of companies and states, molding souls as transpersona shapeshifters. As babies, first born as specific genders with sex organs designed by chromosomes to generate new life before we die, we are nothing more than organic bodies, but as we grow we define our persona based on role models in our tribal tales. Each person creates role they want to play in complex system of society organized around actions we perform to sustain function of conceptual faith extracting material from earth to make and distribute food we need to survive. While each person performs their social role in the global food-production machine, actors, as transpersona shapeshifters, play roles in staged dramas of social issues to channel secret passions of our hearts, presenting effects of choices we make. The most sacred principle we uphold decrees each person may do as they will with this body their consciousness controls if they harm none, so my body, my choice, defines guiding motive our souls express since we are all transpersona shapeshifters. Depending on which purpose for this life each person chooses to perform game of power, this persona we design from our hearts asserts our choice to reproduce or not as we seek soul mate who matches our goal, since humans are transpersona shapeshifters.
Friday, November 22, 2024
Sorrow Of The Autumn Wind
Sorrow Of The Autumn Wind © Surazeus 2024 11 22 Released from sorrow of the autumn wind, heart healing from unspoken wounds of loss, I search for connection to the deep time that flickers bright on currents of the stream, for only I understand my own grief that tears my soul into immortal words. I breathe each shocking moment of this hour with carefree laughter of the autumn wind that leaves me stranded on the future shore where all I know is true dissolves away so I can only see what might occur which gives me no consolation in words. Though I hide in mute shadow of the tree which blooms fruit with indifferent concern, my memories always come looking for me with plans to reshape who I want to be, so squeak of my feet in the river mud comforts my heart with routine of old words. These strange sentences I attempt to speak out of turn in tangled thoughts of despair are carried away by hands of the wind and scattered in tall grass on roadless plain, back and forth as leaves falling worn from trees who watch me wander nowhere without care. Though I cannot enclose the sky with words, I can build virtual world in my brain composed of every memory I have gleaned from every book I have managed to read, yet universe my words design from dreams will never be complete before I die. My heart is cluttered with souls of the dead whose words rattle bone-loud in my glass skull when I reach my hand in well of lost dreams to draw new tropes in lottery of the truth which I attempt to organize with keys that complete puzzle of the world with words. Disturbed by diamond eye of honesty, peaceful pond of my soul ripples with song of bitter-sweet joy for people I meet because I know Death has not found them yet, so we sit together around the fire and share fruit we steal from the Tree of Truth. Still trapped in sorrow of the autumn wind, heart soaking in tears of lost wanderers who share their tales of suffering and woe in circus temple of the fallen angel, I record their stories in Book of Faith so our children succeed where we have failed.
No Man Is Above The Law
No Man Is Above The Law © Surazeus 2024 11 22 Ill-favored wind of tyranny that blows foul rage across land of America, disperse at breath of honest folk who sing brave hymns of respect for democracy, for we will overcome cancer of hate with soul-healing cure of justice for all. The supreme state-sustaining principle on which we found our strong democracy decrees that no man is above the law, that even one we elect head of state must act in parameters of the right, guided by love for the people they serve. The person we choose to steer ship of state safely through sharp rocks of arrogance and greed should not exploit the people of the land, nor wield institutions of government to benefit their own ill-gotten wealth detrimental to the whole common good. The individual mortal human soul, whom we entrust to guide our national way, should serve the people with courageous care through clear attention to our common needs by executing programs that support will of each person to thrive from their work. When devilish spirit of selfish greed dares show its face with arrogant disdain by possessing the haughty businessman who strives to control functions of our state to steal public funds with small blood-stained hands, we unite to fight his dictatorship. When Pluto emerges from smoke of Hell urging Midas to steal gold Crown of Christ, we join Minerva bearing Torch of Truth to drive that cruel devil of tyranny back into cavern of the underworld where he stews in bitter rage of defeat. The noble principle of leadership, that no man is above the law, shall guide administration of our commonwealth powered by engine of democracy where educated people analyze best methods to ensure justice for all. Though tyranny seems to be on the rise, grasping to control reins of government to impose their false system of beliefs, democracy gains strength from trust in truth to maintain state of sustainable growth so we share wealth in our land of the free.
Thursday, November 21, 2024
Shadows Of My Dead Brain
Shadows Of My Dead Brain © Surazeus 2024 11 21 Charged with understanding how stones contain souls of actors in television shows who have died while people still watch them act long after they have vanished from the world, I measure flow of water down the stream unbounded by perception of the eye. Rivers wear mountains into canyon rifts through senseless symbol of the flowing word which splits soul of the body from the mind that leaves me floating on the ocean thought compacted back again in humming stones containing souls of people struck by fame. While walking home from library at dusk, I contemplate secret name of my heart carved on the white stone in the river bed, then stop abruptly at the edge of time when the Great Blue Heron of self-respect lands on the road and looks at me with love. To confront mortality of my soul with exigent clarity in my brain, I explore buoyant network of concepts between distress of my body and game of world civilization people play which expands my cellular consciousness. When I look deep in mirror of your face I see no strident paradox of time reversing order atoms operate when I find myself awake on this Earth again in body my mother creates, now programmed to compose dream prophecies. If moving water figures consciousness imagining spirit of every time in all the history of the universe, then I am one with every flowing stream that rives channels in surface of the Earth to carve new mask for God to wear today. I feel slow circulation of all seas moving around pear-shaped globe of our soul in mythic mindstream of death and rebirth as children who evolve new forms of being from urgent ambition parents express when making love before death strikes us down. Since we are travelers on the spinning Earth we sing in harmony with flowing water till our bodies bloom into trees of fruit for children to eat sweet dreams of our hearts till my words are shadows of my dead brain which traps my spirit as I turn to stone.
Horse Named Star Dancer
Horse Named Star Dancer © Surazeus 2024 11 21 Though it takes a hundred years of slow winds for the frail sorrowful barn to collapse under frantic weight of long-ignored fate, with unconcern of the slowly turned page, the old never-harvested apple tree grows from the last seed my grandmother spit. Still twenty years, lithe in short yellow dress, she leans against the newly painted barn, and peers past gold curls under white straw hat at timeless beauty of the normal sky composed of silver clouds over gold hills where sparrows flock between wind-blown larch groves. Aching with strange passion she cannot name, glorious with beauty of meaningful faith, she stares at clouds that never seem to change, though one resembles her favorite horse that died while pulling the dutiful plow, ghost of its loyalty over wheat fields. As tears for the horse, she secretly named Star Dancer, with his compassionate eyes, soak her cheeks with silly display of affection, she chooses to sing her favorite hymn about walking with Jesus in the garden, and pretends to pet the horse she adored. Spotting cloud of dust swirling from the road, she squints till her eyes discern without doubt quick black horseless carriage she heard about rumbling swiftly toward wood gate of her farm like demon Morax escaping from Hell, so she grabs her round willow-woven charm. Startled to see the horseless carriage zoom so swiftly toward her newly painted barn, Lois hides in haven of sturdy walls, peering between slats as the carriage stops, and gasps to see tall man in strange new suit step out with thin fedora-shadowed face. Grasping shovel with trembling hands of fear, she steels her heart to whack head of the thief, but shrieks and drops it when her cousin Archie steps forth in gleaming halo of the sun, then she laughs at his city-slicker suit, but coos at beauty of the car he bought. Holding dashboard tight with both trembling hands, Lois shrieks with banshee-joyful delight as he drives black Ford so fast down the road that trees and hills swirl into spiral blur, zooming time machine to town in ten minutes, so she spreads angel wings and soars to Heaven.
Wednesday, November 20, 2024
World Of Vibrant Light
World Of Vibrant Light © Surazeus 2024 11 20 Ten thousand doors open and close each hour Moon Girl glides in her boat on sea of stars with leisurely nonchalance of the sad till Buddha possesses the speckled fish and asks her why the mirror of her heart reflects every person who ever lives. Demonic energy of arrogance possesses the toad on his mushroom throne so he demands I find the Diamond Eye that Buddha lost in the Slough of Despond but I am busy bagging groceries to earn tuition fees for graduate school. When the bamboo sprite of sweet innocence asks Moon Girl why she is still feeling sad, she explains her heart is heavy as stone, so he offers to help remove the stone, but she giggles that he misunderstands, and gives him pink cotton candy to eat. While I wear my long raven-feathered cape no one will know that hidden in my brain writhes the fire demon of the mountain cave which gives me supernatural strength to catch invisible words buzzing with despair so I can translate wisdom of the rain. When I reach boundary at end of the world the time-programming system of the Earth traps me in recurring loop of desire till I break free from madness of false hope and seek Apple Witch with star-flashing eyes who knows secret name of my faceless soul. If God is so all-powerful and good, Moon Girl contemplates, sad in her glass boat, then he could create world of vibrant light where beings of energy share beams of love so we forever generate new life to savor pleasure of passionate joy. Instead our bodies formed of molecules need to consume other organic beings in brutal game of hunter eating prey so the stronger and more efficient bodies generate children who consume the others though we will all go extinct in the end. Opening my bio-chemistry textbook to the chapters on proteins and enzymes, I find the Diamond Eye of the Star Wraith so I take it to Moon Girl on the lake who tosses it for Buddha Toad to eat, then we snuggle on her boat in starlight.
Blind Eyes Of God
Blind Eyes Of God © Surazeus 2024 11 20 When forest of my sorrow overwhelms street of public responsibility with cries of wild creatures searching for love, I will go when the green traffic light gleams stranger than eye of the dragon that sings beneath dark ocean waves of memories. I cannot find wet street of my first vision, yet street lamps lead me to abandoned church where I catch raindrops from blind eyes of God that ring with sound of silence in the gloom till I convert saddest tune of my heart to solemn hymn I sing before I die. Though I traversed the waste land long ago to map the signless roads of everywhere that lead to castle on Cliffs of Despair, I carry sand of ghost-contriving words which once formed skull and lyre of Orpheus in leather bag with Ring of the Star Eye. When I left my home and my family I journeyed east to flee the Promised Land where my ancestors came in wagon trains to find the secret of the Holy Grail which shines in hands of the woman I love so we raise children in safe zone of our home. This story seems to be about my trip through the endless maze of America built on the ruins of Britain and Rome, but I see history of humanity swirl in tides of ambition and despair as empires rise and fall in waves of change. Since I am now too far from Helicon, and Parnassus is way beyond my reach, I climb Takoma, Mountain of my Muse, to see how far from sea to shining sea Empire of Anglonesia in my heart crowns northern hemisphere of spinning Earth. When rogue gangsters in heart of darkness build private armies of warriors from lost tribes, kings who rule systems of state violence send assassins to slay the tyrant bull in religious ritual of sacrifice that props power through apocalypse now. At darkest hour the Hidden Dragon stirs beneath dark ocean waves of memories, and, when he grasps fruit of the Golden Bough, will slay the antichrist to cleanse our hearts to dwell in United Nations of Earth with Justice and Liberty for all.
Tuesday, November 19, 2024
His Skull Still Sings
His Skull Still Sings © Surazeus 2024 11 19 When children dancing in the field of skulls finish cutting grand poems of ancient bards into puzzling fragments of lost world views, they go back to where Orpheus began singing fairy tales about honest men who die to protect their families from harm. After huge rose window of shining glass, that once depicted life of our World Savior, is shattered by whistling bombs of world war, children picking fragments of lost world view assemble new puzzle of global myth where Superman guards Earth from aliens. Entangled plots of faceless characters, who wander signless roads of nevermore in and out of houses in maze of streets, confuse young children with false intellect, so they play workers of factories and farms who fight hungry zombies of laziness. Sad antihero of the modern tale, investigating crimes of gangster kings, seeks not endless fame Achilles desired, but works to measure with physical laws evidence that exposes the plain truth, ensuring justice serves the innocent. Higher levels of abstract consciousness produce analysis of hidden souls, encoded well in metaphors of love, to weave weird meaning in tissue of signs revealed by contextual frame of desire that transforms language into acts of art. Where I stand in the middle of nowhere, on planet Earth that spins in starless void, becomes still center of my universe for all its countless galaxies of worlds since I wear mask of the Many-Faced God to be every person who ever lives. Each conscious being who walks the spinning Earth tells story of their quest to find the truth in voice that joins all others in world choir which merges all their special characters in global soul they worship as new God whose tale contains all their experiences. Trapped in context collapse of our world myth, we sell books of our tales in market stalls about loss of social totality to break idols of all great characters so we can build one idol for all gods which we eat as cookies each holiday. When I look up at the moon as I sing I see reflection of my mortal face as mirror of gigantic shadow soul that helps me see truth of the present age because light of the future shining clear reveals true nature of the human mind. Failing to retrieve his true love from death, Orpheus sings his heart-breaking grief, but, angry at truth that death is the end, his audience tears him into countless bards who sing in every city round the Earth for his skull still sings in Temple of Truth.
Beauty Tames My Heart
Beauty Tames My Heart © Surazeus 2024 11 19 Like when naked wild-haired Odysseus first sees eerie beauty of Nausicaa, or when savage Enkidu in dark woods meets graceful Shamhat in red priestess gown, I gaze entranced by power of your soul when you welcome me to your island home. Like Anticlea, granddaughter of Hermes, formed Odysseus from spirit of the wolf, and Aruru, who tends garden of herbs, molded Enkidu from thick river mud, my mother assembled puzzle of souls from farmers, shipwrights, and kings to make me. Like unruly Neptunus thrashing waves as I race galloping fury of my horse I battle Cetus and Leviathan to protect my sweet bride Salacia who guards fresh-water springs of mountain vales for humans to drink as they tend fruit trees. Like ferocious Cronus with sharp spear overthrows his father to rule the world, I rise from Tartarian caves of insight to battle tyrants now oppressing Earth and free good people with democracy so they will not overthrow me in turn. Like barbarian Odin with horn of joy storms Gates of Heaven with hordes of free men, I oppose new oligarchy of wealth enslaving millions in factories of hope, till sons of Jesus preaching humble faith exploit their fear with the afterlife lie. Like unlettered Lucifer harrows Hell and builds United Nations with our hearts, I help Justice give equal rights to all, and aid Liberty to free minds from fear, so Ishtar binds all religions in one, reigning in our hearts wherever we live. Like selfless Jesus offers sacrifice of all he loves to help men mend their ways so we create and not destroy the world, I honor Mermaid Mary Magdalene as Hero trained by Hera to guard bride of my hearth so she lives safe in my heart. Like every untamed man in history, born from aggressive passion to survive indifferent nature I mistake as gods hostile to peaceful progress of my life, I roar with truth against forces of fate till Beauty tames my heart with gentle kiss.
Democracy Dreaming
Democracy Dreaming © Surazeus 2024 11 19 All the truth is gone and freedom is crushed. I fight for justice though our rights are trashed. I will always vote to save Liberty. Democracy dreaming on such a fascist day. I stop into a court to hear the case. I look up our rights in the Book of Laws. I argue for rights of equality. Democracy dreaming on such a fascist day. All our facts are twisted into cruel lies. I oppose the tyrant and his fierce spies. We are imprisoned by bold tyranny. Democracy dreaming on such a fascist day. I raise Flag of Freedom to lead the way. Her bright Torch of Truth signals our new day. We will always fight for Democracy. Democracy dreaming on such a fascist day.
Puzzle Of Chemical Pain
Puzzle Of Chemical Pain © Surazeus 2024 11 19 It is most unnecessary for you to know all the suffering I must endure each day I wake from restless dreams of hope and perform rituals that keep me alive another dozen years or so till I crumble into the nothingness of time. I will never tell you the pain I feel buzzing through fragile shell of my faint soul in jittery jangles of nauseous disgust, unexplainable throbbings of despair that dispel grand visions of helpful play in favor of surviving day by day. This torso of Apollo, lithe with grace, I once inhabited in fertile youth, deteriorates through excess of lusty angst to fractured puzzle of chemical pain since I lost my Ozymandian head somewhere in futile battle against death. Yet wrenching storm of anguish that bombards fragile ecosystem of flashing nerves in hostile blitz of dizzy-dazzling pain, subsides from wild tsunami surge of tides to calm glow of imperceptible ache that leaves me floating with strain of relief. I cannot let you see my suffering that twists my care-free passion into fear, so I base frail chaotic tremble firm with stiff exertion of tense self-control to maintain balance on tightrope of grace bound whole with civil respect for strong faith. While trembling on tightrope of earnest faith high over abyss of eternity, Zarathustra declares he has achieved strength of the Superman who overcomes weakness of fear in suffering he endures, for what kills me not makes me strong as God. After crossing Bridge of Forgetfulness, I leave bleak wasteland of blind faith in God to search the Promised Land of free-grown fruit for Holy Grail which generates new life, so I teach my son how to serve the People instead of exploiting them for his gain. Since I have resurrected in this life, ascending pyramid of social power to rule the People with merciful love, I guard my wife whose heart regenerates new body for immortal soul of genes in child who incarnates me as I die.
Monday, November 18, 2024
Ocean Heart Of The Earth
Ocean Heart Of The Earth © Surazeus 2024 11 18 The sly boy with wings no one can see taps the egg-shaped stone on the desert dune till it cracks open with flash of blue light to reveal the ocean heart of the Earth, so he bears it carefully in both hands to find his snake-eyed mother in the tree. Slithering in branches of the long-dead tree, Melusine gazes at heart of the Earth that shimmers dark blue in hands of her son who asks her how its light creates our soul, so she throws his geode in the waste land where jagged jewels burst in gushing streams. Dancing in desert waste land of despair, Poseidon chants primeval water spell so waves of water gushing from geode swirl ever-expanding cycles of waves that surge in moon-ruled tides of opulence to fill vast desert canyons with deep seas. Floating high on enormous ocean swells, that bellow loud with deep thunderous roar as clanging bells of waves at granite cliffs, Neptunus leaps on rainbow-dragon wings and dives down in deep abyss of desire to swirl around tall hydrothermal vents. Weaving carbon rings into coils of genes, Tethys composes protein chromosomes to replicate their patterns in bound cells which multiply into organic beings who evolve through four hundred million years fish to lizard to mouse to cat to ape. Oceanos walks submerged in ocean wave, buoyed upright by deep breath in his lungs, then emerges from surging tide of change to stride upright, well-balanced on two legs, clutching fish he caught with clamp of his thumb, and lays his offering on small ziggurat. Roasting fish over flames on altar stone, Dagon offers strip of delicious steak to each person who kneels in humble prayer, while Ishtar plays lyre and sings hymn of life describing how wise Uranus and Gaia created our world from ocean of light. The sly boy with wings no one can see runs with horses along the ocean shore with joyful passion of his beating heart, then kneels and draws images in the sand showing Alpheus chasing Arethusa who bears Artemis with heart of the Earth.
Wearing Eyes Of God
Wearing Eyes Of God © Surazeus 2024 11 18 Somewhere in the curious world of our hearts young girl who lives in garden of peach trees picks up bright stars that glimmer in the sand and holds them high above her fragile head so they create the darkness with their beams which she weaves into the sweet song she sings. Strolling past the small bakery on her street, she sees Allah with long beard and star eyes baking bread for people on Earth to eat, so when he looks thirsty in desert heat she brings him wood cup of peach juice to drink, then he transforms her to a cat with wings. Flying from enormous cavern of his heart, she glides above the maze of city streets to find statue of the most lonely man that looks like her father wearing hemp pants who builds one-horse wagon with four large wheels while children dance around him chanting spells. Finding the oldest woman in the world weaving baskets from bones of long-dead gods, she asks if she has a spare pair of eyes, so the old woman floats on river waves, guiding her to first island in the lake where the Tree of Knowledge grows from her heart. The oldest woman in the world retrieves the pair of eyes she hung on Tree of Faith and gives them to her with two jingling bells, explaining how these eyes God forged from light have seen whole evolution of the world, so with them you will see beauty of love. Wearing Eyes of God within her own eyes, the girl dreams history of the universe since the first flash flares forth from the big bang to form this planet which creates our souls from seeds that sprout light beams and rain drops and grow into wingless angels who sing. Finding young blind boy in the mountain woods, Amirah gives him Eyes of God she found so he sees the beautiful world she loves while they stroll together on city streets eating bread Allah bakes from dreams of ghosts and drinking cow milk from heart of Hathor. When over horizon of the dark world the morning sun casts curious rays of truth, Amirah stands on pyramid of eyes and sings creation of the universe in songs that flow from fountain of her heart so people of the Earth drink her sweet words.
Sunday, November 17, 2024
World Socialist Utopia
World Socialist Utopia © Surazeus 2024 11 17 After I crawl out of the rabbit hole from searching for the graves of long-dead gods I walk in blue dusk to the grocery store where evening shoppers, hoping to buy faith, are careful not to share their eyes with owls to read secret messages on glass doors. Pausing in back aisle under the fake clock, I stare at large can of potato soup and wonder what would happen if a bomb were to blow holes in television screens, but then I smile with assurance of faith that I have hid my dreams in unread books. Hired by the government to play the role of Lucifer exposing greedy frauds, I hide every book of forgotten lore that dares to reveal name of the Star Wraith till I join the internet ghost who howls with hungry despair on the money moors. I return every year to Plymouth Rock where I arrived with freedom-fighting group commissioned to build alabaster tomb for Jesus who loves to build time machines powered by spirit essence of the wraith reborn in artsy minds of castle cooks. I try to understand this modern age where lonely rebels, clutching plastic guns, pretend to fight against the government while getting their farmer subsidy checks to grow wheat on the prairies far from towns, while I write fantasy novels in verse. For the next revolution to begin the people living in home of the brave must elect cruel dictator of blind greed as their messiah of the nuclear cloud who will destroy their rich land of the free so we can build new paradise for all. When jester of the king prances on stage to mock the way their fake messiah runs the people stuck in loops of argument wear assault-rifle crosses on their necks to cheer Headless Horseman at Churchill Downs who fails to escape the Trojan-Horse curse. Yet the cosmic herald will always win right to translate code from the ocean wave so everyone works to get what they need in world socialist utopia of the proud since Odin bears the social justice key he stole from Lucifer before the Fall.
Face Of My Tribal Soul
Face Of My Tribal Soul © Surazeus 2024 11 17 I wear ancient face of my tribal soul designed by each ancestor who survived hungry monsters haunting indifferent world on difficult quest in landscape of fear to find the secret of eternal life in eyes of my soulmate who understands. Holding hands with innocent trust of love, we stroll winding road of companionship to share tales of our lives before we met as we plan where we would like to go next to fulfill our desires living in peace and raising children we create with love. When gang of men surrounds us with wood wands I crouch in martial stance of fortitude then fight thieves with my brass diamond-tipped wand that splinters their arrogance with calm grace so they flee in panic in shadowed woods, leaving us to continue on our way. Discussing tricks for brewing honey wine, we stop by temple of the weeping god when gang of men return with their old king who commands I give him bride of my heart so he can breed strong children from her womb, and he will let me slave if I submit. When I defy old tyrant to his face, requesting he let people live in peace, he orders archers to shoot, so I twirl wand of wisdom that deflects every arrow, then I break wheels of his grand chariot, causing him to fall face down in the dirt. After I kill his soldiers who attack, I help old trembling king stand on his feet, then ask him why he kidnaps free-born girls, but he invites me to pyramid hall where he gives me crown to rule in his place, so my bride places jeweled ring on my head. Priests rush and try to chain my arms and legs to throne of judgment, but I leap away and strike their heads with magic wand of truth, then trembling king explains how they forced him to issue decrees that increase their wealth, so I kill them, and give him back his crown. Holding hands with trusting bride of my heart, I leave pyramid of power behind so he can continue to rule the world while we raise wise children at our country farm, feasting and dancing each safe evening night while sons of the dead king fight for his crown.
If Our Empire Falls
If Our Empire Falls © Surazeus 2024 11 17 I am not concerned if our empire falls because some people think their race and class is clever enough to control the rest thought no one reads the writing on the walls that claims the fight over wealth is too crass since the winner must always be the best. Each time I walk into the crowded room with voice of the people I speak in code the owl outside the window proves its point that humans are prone to expect grand doom since our ancestors always took the road less traveled by to temple of the saint. If nature, not art, can usurp the prayer each artist portrays on canvas of time, ruined buildings of her body contain expression of the portrait far less fair than secret that our brains evolve from slime, so we walk together in silent rain. I understand what the trees try to tell before they throw smog at resilient flowers in chorus of laments on road of skulls awake in puzzling light of the rune well that feeds three blind brides in absolute towers who teach their kind husbands not to be tools. Whatever name you think to call me now I will accept it based on ancient stars to clean secret smudge off back of my soul when we assemble to worship the cow which travels in circles with silver cars because surviving the end is our goal. Each segment in strange story of my life swings open with arrogance of the orange devised by the fallen angel to heal broken hearts of lovers confused by strife of singing girls to be crowned in Stonehenge as Fairy Queen who controls the state wheel. This world where we are born from ache of love is dream of this world that spins among stars in oval cycle around the sun god who invites us to grand feast in the cove through trap to assassinate son of Mars who is on track to lead the Justice Squad. The lake of pain where humans bathe at dawn reveals cold absence of our mortal state we use to share our monstrous tenderness as background players who would crown the pawn as hidden emperor who rewrites fate if we decide to sell our happiness.
Nomad Of Signless Roads
Nomad Of Signless Roads © Surazeus 2024 11 17 Though I am the nomad of signless roads I want to draw the border of my truth around my sorrow on the map of hope to make my soul the country of my heart where you can dwell safe in walls of my love no matter how far we wander from home. Though I travel alone to love and faith, enduring struggles against obstacles indifferent nature casts on road of hope, my journey to find home our love creates is shared by every person in the world, for in the end we all will meet in death. Though I had hoped we would all meet in death I find myself alone on road of fate, my private paradise where I now dwell designed by every little choice I make as I expand its borders to include every nameless soul lost on every road. Though we meet now and then on road of life we find ourselves alone with faceless death so we give Death the faces of our friends so we can share sweet comfort of despair while savoring beauty of forever now till eternity erases everything. Though bombs destroy the homes our fathers built we build new homes with shrapnel of their hate so bombs cannot destroy homes made of bombs till we decide with one expressive word to blast illusions of our hopes to dreams so we can build homes from elusive faith. Though borders drawn by men with guns of greed mark where their gangs of killers ceased combat I walk through fences and past gates of fear to bind all countries of the world in one, connected by our shared experience of losing the homes we built with our hearts. Though I hide in the shadow of my home, hoping border of our fear keeps us safe, I feel aggression of invading thieves who seek to drive me from my paradise so they can build their home of star-blind faith on ruins of my home with blood and bones. Though I am the nomad of signless roads I want to erase all borders of fear to free our spirits from the Promised Land that imprisons our hopes in blinding faith, for heavy hearts sprout wings of honesty to fly above vast maze of bombed-out homes.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)