Adam Naming Things

Adam Naming Things
© Surazeus
2024 12 21

I pretend I am Adam naming things 
so I can make things happen without words, 
but many things happen against my will 
so I keep quiet and go with the flow, 
steering boat of fate on river of time 
with my telephone-wire sunset of faith. 

Somewhere along the endless flow of change 
I row my boat ashore from River Styx 
to explore meadows of Elysium 
where love reveals essential state of life 
inherent in expression of the Force 
which I apply to conjure paradise. 

Each morning when I wake from dream of light 
I assess sun-streaked clouds in the dawn sky 
and state who I want to become today, 
then perform my role in our social play 
that never goes the way I planned at first 
so I am someone else by end of day. 

The only body parts I can see well 
are these hands I use to transform the world 
by rearranging landscape elements 
so I create Cosmopolis of hope 
where children invent games of politics 
when someone crowns himself King of the Hill. 

Though I invent with hope inside my mind 
the way I want our spinning world to be, 
when I explore the world beyond my home 
I discover weird landscapes of despair, 
so I map the real world as it is now, 
then shape my soul to match its destiny. 

The map I draw to imitate the world 
spills off table of curiosity 
in jagged tree-bound coasts lashed by wild waves 
where I follow rivers to mountain peaks 
so I can see the world outside my mind 
casting shadows of ideas in my heart. 

Across span of three hundred thousand years 
my ancestors walked, exploring the Earth, 
from Egypt east along world mountain range 
to Guilin where I climbed to reach the sky, 
then northwest to the rugged Caucasus, 
and west across Europe to Oregon. 

I followed the Sun to edge of the world 
to discover where she rises from the sea, 
then followed the Sun west the other way 
to discover the Earth is a round globe 
that spins around the giant glowing sun, 
so now I know who I have always been. 

After Rapunzel Escapes

After Rapunzel Escapes
© Surazeus
2024 12 20

After Rapunzel escapes tall stone tower 
where Pluto had kept her his prisoner, 
she climbs barefoot across the jagged rocks 
where roaring ocean waves burst into spray, 
shivering in thin dress as she climbs steep hill 
to stand beside old tree on windy plain. 

Bloody feet pressing moist soil under grass, 
Rapunzel breathes fresh gusts of chilly wind 
to motivate fierce beating of her heart 
which fuels each step she takes across the plain 
as she limps slowly toward the gleaming hill, 
then kneels and drinks blue water from the lake. 

Recognizing lush meadow of bright flowers 
where she was gathering herbs, mushrooms, and eggs, 
when Pluto snatched her wriggling in his arms 
and raced away in horse-drawn chariot, 
Rapunzel weeps as she walks toward small hut 
where she lived with her mother years ago. 

Finding small hut nestled among oak trees 
under small rock cliff where the river bends, 
Rapunzel opens creaking door with hope 
to see bright eyes of her mother again, 
but shrieks and sobs when she finds withered corpse 
rotting with worms inside her skeleton. 

After she buries her mother in Earth, 
shrouding her rotten corpse with flower petals, 
Rapunzel cleans the hut, sweeping dirt out, 
scrubbing the walls, and scooping cold gray ash, 
then sparks bright fire that glows with starry light 
to brew apple cider which warms her heart. 

Though she lived thirty years in tower room, 
sleeping on silk feather bed with plush pillows, 
wearing elegant gowns and jeweled crowns, 
and hosting fabulous feasts with rich food 
while feted as queen by ministers and dukes, 
Rapunzel savors freedom of her hut. 

Thinking about the three children she bore 
to Pluto, while imprisoned as his wife, 
grim Orcus, Hades, and Persephone, 
Rapunzel feels reluctant twinge of guilt 
for abandoning them to his abuse, 
but Pluto values his wealth over her. 

While tending her small garden by the river, 
Rapunzel senses presence of her son 
approaching from the lake with eager joy, 
but when she calls Orcus with surprised cry 
his ghost vanishes in the evening dusk, 
so she kneels alone and cries to the moon. 

Sweet Illusions of Happiness

Sweet Illusions of Happiness
© Surazeus
2024 12 20

Relaxed in the rocking chair by stone hearth, 
dressed warmly in wool sweater and tweed coat, 
Professor Randall Simnette sips hot chocolate 
and contemplates snow falling on oak trees. 
"All the cheerful joys of this holiday 
are but sweet illusions of happiness." 

"Though I remember with fondness of faith 
bright cheerful glow of life inside the home 
warmed by crackling fire of togetherness, 
those hours of cheer, eating delicious cake, 
were designed to insulate our frail lives 
from bitter coldness of the world outside." 

His eyes, green isles surrounded by blue lakes, 
gaze out the frosted window at the lawn 
where children, bundled warm in coats and gloves, 
build snow people of various characters 
seen in movies and real society, 
then post photos on social media sites. 

"How innocent they are this playful hour, 
naive to dangers of the ugly world, 
sheltered by their parents from bloody horror 
of wars empires wage to control rich lands 
by killing loving families just like theirs, 
shielded by faith in our Heavenly Father." 

When his wife, in dress embroidered with flowers, 
brings him plate with slice of angel food cake, 
he smiles with gratitude, then beams with pleasure 
after one big bite, so she pats his shoulder 
as he hums Hark the Herald Angels Sing 
with the charmed singer on the radio. 

"These rites of togetherness we perform 
to assuage our loneliness in cold winters, 
are sweet illusions of happiness we share 
to help us survive long cold bitter nights 
while waiting for the Sun to be reborn 
and resurrect life on Earth with his Light." 

When gang of homeless men from somewhere else 
approach his door and beg for food to eat, 
he contemplates what King Jesus would do, 
so he aims his rifle at hatless heads 
and demands they leave his property now, 
so they turn and run down the signless road. 

"These heart-warming holidays of true faith 
we spend together when the world has died 
are our sweet illusions of happiness 
in safe havens we build with bleeding hands, 
standing guard over walls of paradise 
to keep our families safe from gangs of thieves." 

Freedom Of Zarathia

Freedom Of Zarathia
© Surazeus
2024 12 20

Letters written one hundred years ago 
have scattered into fragments of stale words 
no longer able to contain emotions 
soldered with intensity of vain hope 
while ghosts of senders and receivers wait 
century of endless wars at locked gates. 

Old half-blind writer of stories and plays 
sits at worn wood desk with paper and quill 
in apartment above the bakery shop, 
staring at the cemetery of oaks, 
then writes weird prophecies in awkward verse 
about how the new empire will fall too. 

Motherless woman in the warehouse shed 
slashes hundred of portraits with sharp knife 
that she had painted over twenty years 
to erase her pain from dream of the world 
till men lock her in blank asylum room 
where she bites her fingers to paint with blood. 

I hear deep voice in soft splash of sea waves 
murmur with grief of the Americas, 
so I document silence in the cries 
of children orphaned by corporate greed 
who grow up to mourn the bodies of steel 
that we inhabit with computer brains. 

I paint blank mask of my national face 
with color of time extracted from trees 
that grow through cracks of asphalt parking lots 
so bees can thrive again in dusty fields 
to fertilize our lonely hearts with love 
poisoned by insecticides of glass angels. 

The bodies of people painted with blood, 
killed by angry boys with their righteous guns, 
are displayed as mummies of innocence 
in museum of individual rights 
where worshippers gather with solemn prayers 
before gold statue of the rifleman. 

Sacred hunting grounds of the native tribe, 
where their Garden of Eden thrived in peace,  
is now covered by the Mictlan Strip Mall, 
where we drive roads with traffic lights and signs 
to shop at stores for clothing and jewelry, 
then eat hamburgers and fries with cold soda.  

When America vanishes in flames 
of civil war between opposing views 
of democracy against tyranny, 
we will replace fallen empire of greed 
with generous freedom of Zarathia 
where everyone lives equal in the law. 

Chew Gold Coins

Chew Gold Coins
© Surazeus
2024 12 20

Not long for the darkness of the closed book 
will I still float in water of the lake 
to contemplate how birds fly among clouds 
where they transform into angels with harps 
who play sweet music of the afterlife 
that lures me to walk the lost primrose path. 

Each person in our far-wandering clan 
lies down along the signless road of hope 
where they dissolve into soil of the Earth, 
so we continue walking somewhere else 
to find the elusive fountain of youth 
whose waters restore our bodies to health. 

This ancient memory of my wandering tribe 
haunts me while I sit at my office desk 
with fingers weaving documents of faith 
that describe progress of our business model 
to sell more units to our customers 
who remember crouching on the bleak plain. 

Our shared communal memory of the past 
when we journeyed across landscape of desire, 
hunting animals to roast on the fire, 
and gathering fruits and herbs from lush vales, 
motivates drive of our capitalist state 
to operate factories producing food. 

Rising from silver water of the lake 
that cleans my body and mind from hard work 
of helping run the world corporate machine, 
I stretch my body from Earth to Blue Sky 
where no angels play harps on glowing clouds, 
then lounge under the willow on the shore. 

The man gliding behind me on the road 
slows his motorbike when I turn around, 
and grins as he aims pistol at my heart, 
then shouts, "Your business model based on greed 
scams the people who work hard while you play," 
then fires seven bullets into my soul. 

I wish I could say that when I arrive 
at the Gates of Heaven, where Peter sits 
processing souls, he could adjudicate 
my earned admission into paradise, 
but I sink into gloom of nothingness 
as Peter pushes me off the gold cloud. 

Now I wander in my enormous mansion 
forever searching for something to eat, 
but all I find are heaps of metal coins 
that once could buy favorable legislation 
deregulating how I conduct business, 
so I chew gold coins for eternity. 

Absent Moon Calls Me

Absent Moon Calls Me
© Surazeus
2024 12 19

If absent moon calls me out of my mind 
one demon star swells larger than my heart, 
yet I sway dizzy from vastness of time 
when I rise from bed in cold predawn gloom 
as whisper of your church dress fills the room 
with shadows of thoughts no one ever shares. 

Though spin of timeless fantasy unspools 
reflective phonemes woven into spells, 
I mispronounce secret name in my heart 
to glide over boundaries of ancient truths 
which separate boundless domains of faith 
in precious gardens where wild children fly. 

In rooms of white paper where windows cry 
my eyes bloom lavenders of humble hope 
to twist Me with We in spiraling loops 
which still conflate strange personalities 
with standard characters in romance tales 
who become ghosts in television screens. 

I beam rays of consciousness from my eyes 
as radio signals seeking to transmit 
conceptual vision of my weird world view 
across soft silence of snow-frosted fields, 
so I calmly claim I am the bold farmer 
who transforms the waste land into lush Eden. 

I take for granted the concept of land 
defining space of dirt where I alone 
have right to dwell in harmony with Nature 
who churns fresh cow milk into honey butter 
we spread on bread of arrogant dismay 
when flap of butterfly wings changes fate. 

Absence must be fierce desire of my heart 
to join the circus and travel the world 
so I can find the faceless mate I love 
who waits for me in the lace-quiet room 
while my ghost plays soothing piano tunes 
that swirl into the television screen. 

Leaning over Bridge of Forgetfulness, 
I almost hear whispers of faceless ghosts 
who laugh at how I try to understand 
constant motion of water in the brain 
which animates our universe of forms 
incarnate in children who invent names. 

I try to meditate with calm discourse, 
but swelling pulse of sweet anxiety 
explodes in verses writhing serpent-wild 
when I wrap tentacles of mental demons 
in variant bundles of conceptual truth 
for hungry people to eat psychic cake. 

Paper Persona Masks

Paper Persona Masks
© Surazeus
2024 12 19

If we all call each other the wrong names 
our paper persona masks, blown by the wind, 
may land on windshield of the brand new car 
which Zeus drives to his Olympian home 
and cause him to remember we exist 
so he will come and visit us at school. 

Yet when the angry boy who hates the world 
strides in school with gun of hate in his hand, 
we cannot escape wrath of random rage 
that tears our sense of safety into shreds 
of dollar bills laundered by the drug lord 
to buy yachts and senators with his greed. 

We cannot escape this planet of games 
so we must build paradise on this Earth, 
treating each other with honest respect 
because cats love everybody the same 
when they run across the rooftops of trains, 
transforming into superheroes of fate. 

Too many normal and kindhearted people 
become famous when someone shoots them dead, 
so I would rather stay alive and unknown 
than become famous for how I get killed, 
therefore I shift slantwise shadow of fate, 
evading Death for just another day. 

If we could be heroes just for one day 
we would help homeless refugees from war 
build shelter from the storm in paradise 
so every person in the world can learn 
creative skill according to their talent 
to live their one wild and precious life well. 

As I review strange beauty of this Earth 
with animals teeming in varied landscapes, 
perceiving complex beauty of all forms 
composed of atoms glowing into life, 
I comprehend that no one made this world, 
for everything transforms from energy. 

So when we gather on the river shore 
that flows by the temple where Zeus plays chess 
with Hades over who will die today, 
we give each other new names from our hearts 
to wear as paper masks when we perform 
game of politics in grand halls of power. 

I see you with my complicated eyes, 
sensing with my heart your essential soul 
which glows with divinity through your eyes, 
so we make fruit pies and hot chocolate 
to eat around the glowing hearth of love 
on this dark eternal night of the soul. 

Glass Mask Of Righteousness

Glass Mask Of Righteousness
© Surazeus
2024 12 19

People who wear glass mask of righteousness 
shatter facades of brick buildings with jokes 
so they can perceive the industrial heart 
that operates machine of privilege 
which we fuel with blood of obdurate pride 
to maintain distance from toxic belief. 

Transparent trail through ideology 
leads us to grove of thirteen singing stones 
where people rendered homeless by the war 
offer without arrogance of despair 
testimony of the sacrificed self 
which confuses the faithful-minded fraud. 

Innocent shopkeepers of the lost lake 
build walls of paradise with prejudice 
to release hungry hearts by breaking stones 
pilfered from ruins of cathedral halls 
so tired workers can wear another face 
by exchanging keys to towers of oil. 

We follow money on the water trail 
that always winds back to the offices 
where robots of incorporated persons 
issue decrees for workers to obey 
though we hide bananas in cowboy hats 
to prove we are superior to clowns. 

We create God in the image of Man 
to prove we are better than animals, 
then build the fire on misty mountain ridge 
and dance all night while drinking blood of gods 
to honor mystery of the kitchen witch 
so everyone speaks about how they feel. 

No one dares steal cinnamon apple pies 
cooling on the windowsill of despair 
that Eve bakes in hot oven of her hope, 
so we stand on the hill around the tree 
and ask the faceless spirit in the sky 
how we can attain everlasting life. 

God says nothing from the eye-glowing cloud 
so we all conclude there is no one up there 
except the Moon who makes ocean waves roll, 
but she is waiting for us to construct 
rocket ships so we can fly to her heart 
and build our lonely house with mirror doors. 

Forgetting wildness of the mindless sea, 
we build vast city of homes to reflect 
maze of myths where dead gods play hide and seek, 
so when I wear glass mask of righteousness 
everybody thinks my authority 
beams down from nuclear eyes of the Sun. 

Holy Apple Of The Sun

Holy Apple Of The Sun
© Surazeus
2024 12 19

Your origin story is based on guilt, 
but mine is based on desire to create 
new bodies from dark spirit of the Earth 
so the Sun becomes conscious of itself 
through light and rain in sacred fruit we eat 
which I take when I trick the greedy snake. 

The Sun becomes conscious inside my brain 
when I wake from sensation of desire 
from floating in the sea two billion years, 
feeling urgent need to crawl from the lake 
and climb the tree that reaches to the sky 
where I eat holy apple of the Sun. 

Trembling from hunger and cold in the rain, 
I walk along the river from the sea 
to see the man standing tall by the cave 
whose head is haloed by the glowing sun 
so I ask for fruit from the serpent tree 
then open my heart to receive his soul. 

I generate new body for his soul 
who grows tall and strong as he withers old 
in endless cycle of death and rebirth 
to reincarnate spirit of the Sun 
which animates the man with gleaming eyes 
who explores the Earth for six million years. 

Though I feel guilty when I miss the mark, 
and fumble when I attempt to create 
something good with lithe gestures of my hands, 
this guilt alerts me to adjust my stance 
when I analyze strict physics of motion 
so I can perform better with each attempt. 

With keen attention of observing eyes 
I study nature of physical bodies 
composed of matter in patterns of forms 
to see all things are structures of small atoms 
and know consequence from cause and effect 
to help me create, rather than destroy. 

When I construct matter into new forms, 
I invent pottery, tools, and machines 
that help me cultivate plants from the Earth 
so everyone performs their special role 
in communal food-production process 
while I keep watch on the high ziggurat. 

Thus I become God who rules the empire 
where every person plays their special role 
to maintain baby-generation cycle 
repopulating cities with wise workers 
who assimilate all nations of Earth 
into Heaven I create with the Word. 

Road Of Paramo

Road Of Paramo
© Surazeus
2024 12 18

Peter Paradise drives red pick up truck 
on thousand-mile road across the waste land, 
passing the same sign every hundred miles 
with the name Paramo, that points the way 
with misdirection through the spiral maze 
to world amusement park of Wonderland. 

When he arrives at last in Wonderland, 
after ten thousand generations of sons, 
who each had spent their century-long lives 
driving the Road of Paramo through Hell, 
Peter Paradise parks in the empty lot 
and walks in his snake-skin boots to the booth. 

Dafne, the oldest woman in the world, 
covered with black widow spiders, extends 
withered hand to give him ticket he bought, 
so he walks in snake-skin boots and large hat 
past crowds of ghosts waiting in line for rides, 
people who suffered all their lives as slaves. 

Ignoring frantic music of the rides, 
ferris wheels, carousels, and roller coasters 
that spin and spin with fortune of grim fate, 
Peter Paradise searches for the tent 
where the Serpent Woman in cage of glass 
sings siren tunes that drive people insane. 

On stage in Theater of the Blind Horse 
Serpent Woman dances to eerie music 
while King Midas, wearing blue business suit 
and red cape, demonstrates his magic power 
of turning all he touches into gold, 
till he turns the entire crowd into idols. 

Just as King Midas reaches out his hand 
to grasp throat of Serpent Woman with greed, 
Peter Paradise declares with soft voice 
causing mountains to shake with respect 
that his reign of terror exploiting hope 
will end when Bear Girl takes his jeweled crown. 

Sweeping Serpent Woman into his arms 
with whirling leap of superior wit, 
Peter Paradise rescues her with love, 
bearing his bride in maze of Wonderland 
deeper down levels to cave of illusions 
where she transforms from serpent into human. 

Holding each other close with loyal love, 
both Peter Paradise and Serpent Woman 
spread one wing each and fly into the sky, 
then glide gracefully over maze of myths 
to land by River Styx in Elysium 
where they operate their strawberry farm. 

Mountain Of Words

Mountain Of Words
© Surazeus
2024 12 18

Vast view of our world from the mountain peak 
where we can perceive beauty of its scenery 
awes our hearts with spectacular expanse, 
but the peak where we stand is treacherous, 
susceptible to collapse from the weight 
of expectations we project through faith. 

With inspiration of projecting breath 
I decide to climb the mountain of words 
founded on ideology of insight 
to reach nirvanic height of vainless bliss 
where I perceive the wholeness of the Earth 
from treacherous peak of my analysis. 

To climb the unclimbable peak of truth 
and attain the unattainable goal, 
I transcend suffering of my hungry soul 
through extinction of distracting desire 
to expand individual consciousness 
gained through experience of ten billion lives. 

Though my soul emanates from my small brain 
so I am trapped in this body of flesh, 
I climb the mountain of words to transcend 
limiting bounds of my one consciousness 
so I envision life of every mind 
who ever lives in history of our world. 

Smoke from houses rises over broad plains 
where trees sway and hum on the river shore 
as snow drifts from clouds over mountain peaks 
to shroud sorrows of the world in calm peace, 
so I lean against my door with hot cider 
and listen to people sing in their homes. 

Bright light bulbs twinkle on houses and trees, 
gleaming warm with rainbows on long dark nights 
when people gathered around glowing hearths 
share tales of their adventures in the world 
with friends and family after years away, 
showing pictures of far lands they explored. 

Though I climb treacherous mountain of words, 
mapping ontology of my world view 
that provides framework for our anecdotes 
which illustrate lessons of life we learn, 
I savor beauty of this world I see, 
and sing about its mysteries in these spells. 

With mercurial voice of soul-haunting truth 
I join world choir of reverent storytellers 
and sing unending epic of our quest 
to climb the mountain of words to its peak 
and sing about creation of our world 
that flares forth from first flash of the big bang. 

Hope Of Helius

Hope Of Helius
© Surazeus
2024 12 18

If, as Paul claims, the wheel invents the road, 
then our global metropolitan maze 
of cities connected by countless roads, 
that we have blazed the past ten thousand years, 
was designed by the hope of Helius 
when he invented the wheel from despair. 

The spin of the wheel measures the whole world 
within parameters of human hope 
based on ambition to explore the dark 
and map the unknown with perceptive myths 
enclosing waste land of the wilderness 
inside the civil walls of paradise. 

Since Helius first stood on wagon stage
and sang his mercurial hymn to the sun, 
we have stored information about life 
in tales our singers share in distant towns 
to weave our heavens, born in solitude, 
in single matrix of our global fortune. 

When I find two roads diverge in the wood, 
while driving my wagon in the waste land, 
I swerve from ancient road of strict tradition 
to blaze broad religion of curious hope 
so I can construct new City of Mirrors 
where all the hope-roads of the world converge. 

This urgent drive of curiosity 
to find where the sun goes after it sets 
fuels endless exploration of the world 
measured by steady turning of the wheel 
to weave my fortune from the threads of fate 
in tapestry that depicts my epic quest. 

Till I connect every town in the world 
in global empire of my consciousness, 
I drive my wagon on each signless road 
with crafts to sell in markets far from home 
where grand gods that look like mine guard their lives 
though all our idols have long lost their masks. 

The hope of Helius inspires my life quest 
to map every nation thriving on Earth, 
depicting how they flow in streams of history 
from fountain where Amen, Mother of Mankind, 
under four palm trees on the ziggurat, 
gives fresh water for travelers to drink. 

I dream whole history of our teeming world 
with ceaseless spinning from the wheel of time 
that measures fortune in our rise and fall 
of each empire that nurtures human life 
based on global food-production machine 
prophesied by the hope of Helius. 

If Humans Become Trees

If Humans Become Trees
© Surazeus
2024 12 18

If humans become trees when we grow old 
then I want to become the apple tree 
that grows unseen in the middle of town 
where only children notice my existence 
for they can see the essence of all things 
before words distort what our minds perceive. 

If humans become trees when snowflakes swirl 
then I want to become the white pine tree 
that grows tall on the rugged mountain ridge 
where the prophet who escaped Babylon 
hears voice of God in whisper of the wind 
from the hurricane that destroyed his city. 

If humans become trees when bombs explode 
then I want to become the maple tree 
that grows on lake shore in the wilderness 
where men collect sap and boil it to syrup 
for children from low-income families 
to eat breakfast free before they learn math. 

If humans become trees when stars burn out 
then I want to become the willow tree 
that grows enormous among city ruins 
where mothers take their children to the park 
so they can learn rules of social behavior 
we use to fight civil wars over Heaven. 

If humans become trees when ships collide 
then I want to become the rowan tree 
that grows from cemetery of dead gods 
where storytellers memorize burned books 
which recount history of Gothinia 
till it was conquered by invading hordes. 

If humans become trees when gods depart 
then I want to become the olive tree 
that grows from rotting corpse of Artemis 
who wins election as the President 
whose policies balance equality 
with individual rights of happiness. 

If humans become trees when cities fall 
then I want to become the walnut tree 
that grows from core of the cathedral nave 
where wingless angels design and build planes 
so we can fly to Heaven in the clouds 
where Jupiter reigns on his crystal throne. 

If humans become trees when kids are born 
then I want to become the chestnut tree 
that grows in courtyard of the sprawling house 
where descendants of the mad scientist 
cherish illusions of religious faith 
through banana republic of the world. 

Explosions Of Epiphanies

Explosions Of Epiphanies
© Surazeus
2024 12 17

Back and forth the little sparrow rotates 
twelve times between broken clock in the tree 
and orange dripping blood in the church tower 
so I can calculate how long it takes 
to change my boredom into jollity 
without regard to homeless of the world. 

If we all gather on the river shore 
at the same time the tower of gold falls, 
we might agree to put an end to war 
and strew all our weapons upon the ground, 
but someone will find a reason to fight, 
so we will have to convene somewhere else. 

Once we invade the glass convention hall 
to hold discussions about the dream code 
with moderators keeping the talks civil, 
we can all pretend we understand well 
how words arranged in various formulas 
project accurate visions of the world. 

I refuse to let you publish this spell 
in your prestigious literary journal 
because its symbols might collide with lies 
people prefer to believe about fate, 
and cause explosions of epiphanies 
that would shatter fragile egos of poets. 

Instead we shall stroll to the Irish pub 
to eat hamburgers and drink golden beer 
then talk about the dying of the light 
and how we shall not go gentle into it, 
as if our blind faith in the afterlife 
ensures our place in halls of paradise. 

When I go looking for the afterlife 
I see this fantasy of desperate fools 
is nothing more than illusion of hope, 
and find instead the dreamless nevermore 
where we sink into dark gloom of the sea 
where our genes were woven by Mother Earth. 

Nowhere else in all the universe, 
nor in all the flow of eternity, 
has anyone else who is just like me, 
with all my special features I design 
based on my private experiences, 
existed with my weird consciousness. 

I ponder what the sparrow wants to say 
as I play chess with Death on the sea shore, 
then follow the river among lush hills 
to cavern of illusions where my soul 
was forged from gusts of wind that open doors 
when I welcome you to my floating home. 

Flower Into Dreaming Brains

Flower Into Dreaming Brains
© Surazeus
2024 12 17

When I kneel and gaze in the river mirror 
I see everything that happens on Earth 
as endless stream of conscious consequence 
where light beams flower into dreaming brains 
who sing strange beauty of the universe, 
then float in darkness of the nevermore. 

While reading book about history of Europe 
in reverent quiet of the school library, 
Kelly gazes out the window to watch 
flock of birds erupt from the chestnut tree, 
so she grins at soft sound of fluttering wings 
that soothes strange ache of her unwounded heart. 

Guns shots startle her mind from reverie, 
which revs up her heart to beat in high gear, 
so she looks over with eyes of the hawk 
to see the boy Donald, who asks her out 
though she keeps saying no, shoot seven boys 
in the head, so she leaps behind the shelf. 

Standing at the library window, stiff 
with rage, Donald glares at the distant city, 
and snarls about how girls reject his love, 
then mumbles that he will kill everyone, 
but sirens wail, and voices of police 
echo down blood-splattered hall of the school. 

When Donald holds gun to side of his head, 
Kelly stands up with the radiant force 
of eye-blinding rainbows after storm rain, 
so he turns to stare in her emerald eyes, 
hoping to see faint flicker of true love, 
then sneers with disdain as she shoots himself.  

Buzzing faster than honey bees that spot 
lilacs blooming purple by the front door, 
steel bullet erases his consciousness, 
scattering his soul as stars in the sky, 
and Kelly jerks with shock to see his brain 
splatter secret messages on the window. 

Kneeling on clear floor of the school library, 
Kelly feels profound heartbeat of the Earth 
that vibrates in her body, so she shakes 
with shock at vision of light in the sky, 
then floats above the ground on angel wings 
that unfold from coil of fear in her heart. 

Many years later while teaching world history 
to high school students who like to act up, 
Kelly will remember cloud of despair 
blinding eyes of the cruel killer with rage, 
so she dances lithely among their desks 
so fast she floats in the sky without wings. 

Awake In Human Shape

Awake In Human Shape
© Surazeus
2024 12 17

Turtles play chess over who rules the world, 
but the turtle does not represent God, 
so I carve on limestone stela of faith 
divine faces of Isis and Serapis 
on serpents of power that rule the sea, 
for I am the hidden dragon of truth. 

Though I understand why belief in God 
is easy for most people to retain, 
once I dispelled illusion of that idol, 
that veils the real world from perceptive minds, 
I easily see through delusion of faith 
which safely guides people to quiet graves. 

The universe is formed of molecules 
that congregate as active chemicals 
to generate organic animals 
created by the mindless Earth to see 
its face reflected in after-rain pools 
which I like to wear to mask my true soul. 

I am the Earth embodied in this form 
as wingless angel walking on two legs, 
so I am God awake in human shape, 
learning about true nature of our world 
as I express clear vision of my mind 
in words that convey ideas of things. 

When the days get long and the nights get cold 
we gather in the large summer-built hall 
to brew apple cider and bake fruit pies, 
then sing long ballads of heroic deeds 
while firelight causes our faces to glow 
with desperate joy for life as the world dies. 

I want to wish you happy holidays 
as we all celebrate the longest night 
when Christ Mithras was anointed Tribe Guard 
to lead our way from paradise we lost 
across the mountains to the river shore 
where we have built new secret paradise. 

One thousand years we lived in solitude, 
far from grand palaces of world empires, 
secure in strict traditions of our tribe 
that we devised on principle of trust 
where we live as we will, if we harm none, 
brave with justice and liberty for all. 

Which turtle will I choose to play as God, 
everyone asks me with fear in their hearts, 
so I vote for the serpent in the tree 
that guards flourishing apple trees from thieves, 
but he casts me me out in the wilderness 
where I plant apple seeds on river shores. 

Searching For Stable Truth

Searching For Stable Truth
© Surazeus
2024 12 16

Searching for stable truth of common sense 
in constant chaos of conflicts for power, 
we write stories about puzzling events 
presenting action through cause and effect 
performed by characters who seem too real 
till they do something supernatural. 

The gas station attendant sprouts hawk wings 
and chases down the sexual predator 
who turns into the snarling wolf of rage, 
gaunt faces lit by lightning flash of hope, 
till social law sees that justice is served 
while bones of devils dance in hurricanes. 

The high school math teacher becomes the deer 
who darts with graceful pride in apple grove 
where the state senator raises his rifle 
to cut education funding each year 
so children on the playground reenact 
lord of the flies in game of politics. 

The newspaper reporter, who revealed 
corruption of the governor who took 
bribes from bankers to deregulate cards, 
gets fired by the new owner of the journal 
who plays golf with the governor each month, 
so he wears cape of Superman and cries. 

The chief of the health insurance company, 
that denies most claims based in secret codes, 
transforms into the bull snorting with rage 
as Mithras whips red cape and twirls sharp sword, 
then Zorro assassinates corporate thief 
to the cheers of the sick in hospitals. 

The man who bullies people all his life, 
attacking women and stealing from men, 
becomes clear target of the Thought Police 
who chase him through dark corridors of power 
till they corner him in the Oval Office 
where Brutus declares him under arrest. 

The patriotic soldier, wearing medals 
earned in fierce combat against tyranny, 
transforms into Raguel, Angel of Justice, 
commissioned to maintain peace in the land, 
who hunts bitter Midas in maze of myths 
to prevent him from crowning himself king. 

Searching for stable truth with honest sword, 
Minerva fights injustice in the world, 
though powerful men obstruct her progress, 
supporting common people who construct 
creative routines in productive lives 
to make America happy again. 

Never Flow In Reverse

Never Flow In Reverse
© Surazeus
2024 12 16

If perfection is the sense of being whole, 
my life is perfect in this flowing hour 
because I know just how to play my role 
with swirling symmetry of subtle power 
which I encode in sentences of verse 
because time will never flow in reverse. 

Through many centuries of death I spring 
awake with conscious vision in my heart 
above this cluttered world on angel wing 
as global guardian of the star-fate chart 
which helps me navigate vast maze of myths 
where masks of gods are carved on monoliths. 

The star-eyed seraph with ten thousand arms, 
who hovers over garden of my faith, 
smiles at me with weird code of magic charms 
alerting me to presence of the wraith 
who wants to know if I am happy now 
while I play flute and lounge on the milk cow. 

I want to explore Immaculate Here 
which glows beyond last hill of singing trees 
so I can learn how to overcome fear 
while dancing with my wand in river breeze, 
then stand guard on the flat-top pyramid, 
performing job that goes unheralded. 

Contrary to argument of wise fools, 
Earth is not divided in rival parts 
of Mind and Matter, engineered by tools 
which we apply to analyze brain arts 
since nonexistent deities employ 
fear of destruction to activate joy. 

This silver-lighted wood of singing trees 
invites me to transcend my mortal frame, 
so I stand tall and issue weird decrees 
that brave explorers should invent the name 
as code which channels chaos of desire 
from howling cave clan to cathedral choir. 

Prime Mover who first animates each thing 
is dancing on the crest in wind-blown grass 
to manifest beauty of Earth in ring 
that binds similar objects in one class 
so we can talk about the truths we see 
in desperate bid to prove our souls are free. 

With weight of this dark earth upon my breast, 
I measure flow of time with ticking clock 
by chasing the sun across the sky, west 
ten thousand years, guided by the star rock, 
till I forget my original goal 
where perfection is the sense of being whole. 

Give Me More Light

Give Me More Light
© Surazeus
2024 12 16

"Give me more light!" cries the old bitter king 
who gropes alone in the mirrorless maze 
to find salvation on the ocean shore 
where ghost of his brother he killed for power 
haunts him with angelic eyes of despair, 
but floats on his back in the sea of tears. 

Finishing his literature class report 
about the boy who could not kill for power, 
Horace walks home along the country lane, 
convinced Hamlet knows in his angry heart 
that Claudius the Sly is his real father, 
and that is why he hesitates to strike. 

The swallow chirping in the maple tree 
regards the ambling scholar with disdain, 
so Horace sticks out his tongue with a sneer, 
then stands on the ancient arching stone bridge 
to watch stream water flashing in sunlight 
with casual indifference to murder mysteries. 

When shriek of fear rings out in grove of trees, 
followed by sharp crack that sounds like a gun, 
Horace runs quickly along the wood fence 
to find his father sprawled across the road, 
bleeding from the bullet wound in his chest, 
so he cradles his head and looks around. 

Swish of the long black cloak in maple grove 
alerts his cautious attention to clues, 
but, as he asks his father who shot him, 
the bearded man splutters with mouth of blood, 
"my brother who died twenty years ago 
has returned from hell to punish me now." 

Sending swarm of butterflies in the air, 
Horace leaves his dead father in the road 
to chase dim shadow of the murderer, 
wondering if his uncle is really dead 
since no one ever returns from the grave, 
then corners the tattooed man by the cave. 

Grinning at him, the sea pirate declares, 
"I am your father, heir to our estate, 
but when your mother was pregnant with you 
my brother framed me for stealing a cow, 
and I was sentenced to slave on a ship, 
but I have returned to claim what is mine." 

Laughing at the irony of his tale, 
Horace leaves and carries his father home, 
and lays his body on the dining table 
where his mother spits on him with disdain, 
then runs to embrace the wild man she loves, 
so Horace sings sad lament for the dead. 

Faces We Lost In War

Faces We Lost In War
© Surazeus
2024 12 16

Those people who lose their faces in war 
wear masks of angels when they attend church, 
so I stand by the window of long years, 
and, with light of the angel in the sky, 
embrace map of the world no one can see 
that yields gardens where the dead go to sing. 

Tall maples on the ever-rolling hills 
still blaze crimson to show the empire dies 
with men who oppress people with their greed, 
releasing traumatized victims from fear 
so they can gather in silent snowfall 
and pretend nothing bad ever occurred. 

Young wife of Gabriel, older than the moon, 
cleans vast Cave of Illusions where they live, 
cooking meals of apples for him to eat 
while he records clear divine messages 
God wants him to relate with golden runes 
to prophets who guide kings on the right path. 

Each swan that rises from lake of lost dreams 
bears soul of one person killed in some war 
humans are always fighting to control 
their national narrative which defines 
the highest values of that hungry tribe 
who claim this land they conquered as their own. 

Sitting with pearl keys on the ocean shore, 
I try to decipher grammar of stones 
so I can translate sentences of waves 
to clever riddles only children solve 
because words I choose to describe the world 
reveal the type of character I am. 

I am not responsible for the hills 
for without my permission the trees grow 
and bloom with fruit that anyone can eat, 
and birds playfully fly in whistling light 
to prove they need no meaning to exist, 
yet ghosts of my dead friends scream in the mist. 

I build new house from carved mahogany 
to shelter lonely refugees from war 
who wander without purpose of false faith 
in city of mirrors to buy new dreams 
that fail to replace those lost in the war 
based on letters that conceal agony. 

I cast bright threads of psychic energy 
from dancing fingers of conceptual faith 
to weave new world map of hope from our dreams 
that we make real with how we play our roles 
to build city of mirrors with our eyes 
so we can find faces we lost in war. 

City Of The Burning Book

City Of The Burning Book
© Surazeus
2024 12 15

The old wizard bound to the chestnut tree 
always knows when the revolution flares 
from social conflict in the hearts of men 
who fight against their oppressors with sermons 
that blast cathedrals into theaters 
where clowns play politicians filled with greed. 

Far away from vices of Babylon 
the wandering Preacher with the Burning Book 
who leads his family in the wagon train 
founds New Avalon in the wilderness 
to worship spirit of the universe 
embodied by the Mother and her Son. 

The Preacher builds vast maze of singing doors 
where every room has mirrors on white walls 
reflecting secret desires in mute hearts 
of people who walk beside nameless ghosts 
across the waste land to find Wonderland 
where they carve masks to wear from weeping trees. 

The Preacher who rebels against the Tyrant 
becomes the Tyrant ruling Wonderland, 
demanding obedience to divine laws 
he sees while bathing in the waterfall 
till his grandson the Prophet of New Faith 
overthrows him and crowns himself the King. 

Every city the Prophet builds on skulls 
of dead gods, once worshipped by his ancestors, 
grows vast and prosperous from labor of workers 
whose children dismantle grand palaces 
and drive their cars into the wilderness 
where cities they build are erased by wind. 

The Prophet gives his son the Pen of Truth 
to write new scripture for his world religion, 
but he glues feather quills on wooden wings 
and leaps from Tower of Rapunzel at dawn 
to fly above the sprawling maze of myths 
so he can map the way to paradise. 

The Jester who flies above maze of myths, 
to honor his freedom from Gravity, 
maps the ever-changing network of roads 
which have different names every seven days 
so people always know where they should be 
but get lost going where they want to be. 

The vast city built on the Burning Book 
transforms the bones of gods into fruit trees 
who dress in blue-gray suits with rainbow ties 
to write computer programs in dream code 
till the Hacker who follows the White Rabbit 
frees the Wizard bound to the chestnut tree. 

Reality-Distortion Field

Reality-Distortion Field
© Surazeus
2024 12 15

I will turn my thoughts into happy crows 
and let them fly about the neighborhood 
to explain why I wear mask of the clown 
that hides serious ennui of teenage angst 
since anyone who tries to talk to me 
enters my reality-distortion field. 

Weird dreams that haunt us during our childhood 
become our children who run in the field 
between our farmhouse and the lone highway 
where cows and ravens spend late afternoons 
talking about our television shows, 
caught in our reality-distortion field. 

Opening the encyclopedia book 
filled with data about our universe, 
I remember one million years ago 
when I encycle with exploring feet 
landscape of plants and animals I name, 
enclosed by reality-distortion field. 

Encircling world of objects I have named, 
landscape of undulating hills and vales 
with rivers feeding plants and animals, 
I conjure as function of conscious thought 
virtual world composed of unchanging ideas 
that inform reality-distortion field. 

Each object, I observe and catalog 
with name tagged by qualities that defines 
bounds of its existence within time and space, 
extends essential nature of its being 
so I can measure its enduring shape 
enframed by reality-distortion field. 

Expecting perfection of paradise 
where each person performs fate-assigned role 
with strict attention to cause and effect 
so their acts create rather than destroy, 
I nurse disappointment of bitter hope 
twisted by reality-distortion field. 

How often we flawed mortal creatures miss 
the mark of hope we project based on faith, 
and fall short of expected consequence, 
causing destruction of harm and distress, 
yet we confirm our souls in self-control 
through law of reality-distortion field. 

As twisted oak tree on the gnarly hill 
I embrace fairy princess in my arms 
who requests bright Sun Spider of the sky 
bless our marriage with children quick as wolves 
who become humans tending golden wheat 
blooming in reality-distortion field. 

Express Spirit Of Earth

Express Spirit Of Earth
© Surazeus
2024 12 15

Totality of turbulent time trends 
swift as swirling waves along silver streams 
that mold my body from mud, light, and air, 
so Spirit of Earth can wake in my brain 
and sense this planet of electric gems 
pulsing with passion of particle pain. 

When the whooping crane glides over the bay, 
outstretched wings fluttering over blue breeze 
with easy ebullience of tense grace, 
I feel Spirit of Earth awake in flight 
of vigilant attention to explore 
landscape of time with curious respect. 

Riding in back of the Mercury car 
that glides country roads in yellow oak woods, 
I watch herd of horses in broad fenced field 
express Spirit of Earth through galloping 
gleefully free with glissando of grace, 
remembering their journey around the world. 

When worshippers in the Adventure Church 
gather at River Styx on Sabbath Eve 
that flows by the empty Round Table Throne, 
which emanates Spirit of Earth in man 
who wields authority as God in flesh, 
wild boy with Wand of Zambor runs and sings. 

Though hundreds of power-hungry men reign 
as kings or presidents of nation-states, 
contending with each other to control 
resources of land and labor of workers, 
the one unknown emperor of the world 
embodies Spirit of Earth in Dream Cave. 

Grandmother lays white straw hat on the pillow, 
then bakes large apple pies with cinnamon 
for grandchildren to eat at the round table 
where they all drink hot chocolate and cheer 
Spirit of Earth awake as Mother Nature 
who cares for all the children of the world. 

When corrupt institutions of the nation 
fail their missions of helping citizens 
establish self-reliant businesses, 
the Savior manifests Spirit of Earth 
to organize angry rebels with roles 
availing their talents to create good. 

I feel Spirit of Earth fuel my soul, 
animating mortal body with power 
to construct empire of organized games 
where everyone creates good with their hands, 
earning reward for building from waste land 
paradise of fruit trees where all can eat. 

Program The Car Computer

Program The Car Computer
© Surazeus
2024 12 15

If the Lazuli Bunting at the window 
brings brilliant beauty of the brazen sky 
to luminate the kitchen of her heart, 
Rimba will cook for one hundred mouths 
though her family consists of seven people 
who all live alone in their sprawling house. 

Old Saturnus, bound to the Chestnut tree, 
recites long lines of Saturnalian verse 
which no one understands, so they assume 
he recounts values of company stocks, 
but all his words become lizards and mice 
that inhabit bathrooms in city h0mes. 

The tall oak tree covered in shimmering ice 
opens star-bright eyes of psychic insight 
that have seen human empires rise and fall, 
then walks along the rule-straight asphalt road, 
scattering acorns in its cracks that sprout 
new forest of oaks to swallow vast cities. 

The woman with eyes green as Shinko pears 
gazes in hearts of people who pass by, 
and whispers prophecies that predict how 
each one will fail to stay with their soulmate, 
then offers each slice of hot cobbler pie, 
so they pay with sad memories of lost love. 

No one seems to see looming in the sky 
storm cloud that portends disaster of faith, 
yet son of Rimba, with eyes green as hers, 
describes new social change to everyone, 
but they hurry past the raving mad man 
to see Achilles perform new ballet. 

Because the street signs are all painted wrong, 
the son of Rimba calls commissioner 
to explain how he can recalculate 
conceptual flow of crows on power lines 
that should adjust the algorithm right, 
though Death is always the anomaly. 

Attempting to jump-start his racing car, 
Chryses, weeping priest of Apollo, hooks 
vintage Underwood typewriter of dreams 
to the engine block with organic wires 
resembling tendrils of the jellyfish 
to program the car computer with faith. 

Ringing the bell outside the kitchen door, 
Rimba invites lost refugees of war 
to celebrate her Thanksgiving Day feast, 
so they gather in the pyramid hall 
to eat while the Nine Muses perform tales 
that recount the founding of our great empire. 

Unable To Resist

Unable To Resist
© Surazeus
2024 12 14

To sweep angry words from the palace floor 
she pulls the witch broom from her fairy spine, 
then waltzes neath the crystal chandelier 
as if she were sweet princess of the snow, 
then hurries home in narrow alleyways 
to bring stale bread to her large family. 

The elegant duke in white uniform 
rides black horse prancing slow on the stone bridge, 
holding long silver sword curved like the moon, 
then gallops swiftly toward the jeering crowd 
that clamors at the gates of paradise 
and beheads leader of the rebel gang. 

When poor people starving in wooden shacks 
outnumber the rich in grand palaces, 
great empires topple from the lack of bread, 
and kings who think citizens of the land 
are slaves who labor to increase their wealth 
are always caught when they flee to escape. 

To cleanse harsh suffering of her bitter pain, 
the palace maid feeds her mother with soup 
made from meat of rats and potato peels, 
but her mother groans and sinks into death, 
so they toss her on the passing corpse cart, 
then she returns to sweep the palace floor. 

Unable to resist its royal grace, 
the palace maid tries on the long pink gown 
and twirls slowly alone in the dark hall, 
waltzing in glimmer of the winter ball 
to heart-enchanting music of the band, 
but stops at sight of the elegant duke. 

Before she can race back to the wardrobe, 
the palace maid gasps with eager surprise 
when the elegant duke with curly mustache 
sweeps her across the ballroom in his arms, 
and face to face they twirl among the stars, 
hearts beating in harmony of true love. 

Just as their lips connect their hearts in love, 
she whispers, "I am but the palace maid, 
wearing this dancing gown your sister wore," 
but he smiles slightly with mysterious charm, 
"I often watch you sweep the palace floor, 
so I will crown you duchess of my heart." 

Galloping together on his black horse, 
they elope from the palace to live free 
far from strict social rules at his lake farm, 
but his uncle the Tsar fires the long gun, 
one bullet piercing their united hearts, 
so they bleed red, embraced in silver snow. 

New Empire Will Rise

New Empire Will Rise
© Surazeus
2024 12 14

If I sink too deep in the Sorrow Sea 
without the wings my mother made for me 
my brain may swell too huge with words of hope 
my father carved on stones for how to cope 
with deadly virus of beatitudes 
that twist apart my heaven-fractured moods. 

Each door of fear relocked by frozen words 
explains why joy ignores elastic birds 
that bring me keys forged in the bitter heart 
of that actress who will not fall apart 
when she performs my character on stage 
to channel social energy of rage. 

Clay jar that molds electric sprite of fate 
resembling idol designed to be bait 
cracks open in clean temple of the fool 
who sends his daughter to the priestess school 
though she just wants to sew elegant gowns 
for wives of kings who worship serious clowns. 

Nobody knows what role they should play now 
in social drama based around the cow 
whose milk refreshes minds of senators 
who sell their souls to psychic predators 
though God is no director for this film 
about how the cook grasps the spinning helm. 

We always fight about the storyline 
more rigid than the alligator spine 
defining how our nation-state transforms 
within framework of political storms 
between white nationalist theocracy 
and rainbow globalist democracy. 

I cannot return to my old homeland 
with everything I lost stuck in my hand 
because the people who drove me away 
were going to kill me if I planned to stay 
so every signless road around the world 
is now home of the wandering cosmic herald. 

Forget about the book I meant to write 
about all the wrongs I want to make right 
because water under the bridge of truth 
keeps flooding home of the messiah sleuth 
who climbs Mount Hermon to the ruined hall 
to meet the Watcher Angels when they fall. 

Inspired by progress of the mind machine, 
I ask King Hazael what God has seen, 
so he reveals how new empire will rise 
to unite every tribe under blue skies 
and merge all religions in one new faith 
that worships power of the Faceless Wraith. 

Roads Unwinding Time

Roads Unwinding Time
© Surazeus
2024 12 14

Not at the kitchen table do I wait 
for roads unwinding time back to the sea, 
yet I smear dreams of my despair in books 
to forget losing everyone I know 
to silence on the plain of everywhere, 
so we can now pretend we do not care. 

Not in the crowded church of blinded gods, 
where screaming angels crash into the truth, 
do I express concern for broken hearts 
when people whine about the cruel wrongs 
they must endure to earn the sacred right 
to enter Heaven of amusement parks. 

Not in the theater of the absurd, 
where mortal humans wear the masks of gods, 
do I write secrets in the book of lies 
concerning how grandmother bakes her pies 
for happy orphans driving country roads 
to escape mentality of the herd. 

Not in the marble bank of humble wealth 
do I know how to calculate may fate 
in terms of fruit seeds buried in the dirt 
which sprout into trees where dollar bills grow 
so everyone in the world can be rich, 
and no one has to work hard anymore. 

Not in the old house do I find your ghost 
performing ritual of the sacrifice 
while mopping blood of devils from the floor 
who always come over for cake and tea 
disguised as housewives of Beverly Hills 
who sell their children to the corporate kings. 

Not in the senate chamber do I vote 
for cute illusion of America 
where everybody lives under the law 
with equal rate of liberty for all 
so angry boys no girls will ever date 
kill haughty students in high school they hate. 

Not in the museum of long-dead gods, 
who walk around in bodies of foul saints, 
do I consider nature of the mind 
as function of consciousness in the brain 
that vanishes to nothing when we die, 
yet you remain the apple of my eye. 

Not in the forest of the dancing wolf 
do I respect the claims of mortal men 
that they own rights to resource of this land 
for we are transient flames of conscious hope 
that flutter lightly in vast time and space, 
hoping to photograph god with no face. 

Sacred Scroll Of Melkhizath

Sacred Scroll Of Melkhizath
© Surazeus
2024 12 14

With Puff the magic dragon and King Lear 
I stroll the windy shores of Windermere 
to find the sacred scroll of Melkhizath 
with map that shows the hidden Golden Path 
we must follow to save democracy 
from brilliant candor of hypocrisy. 

With honest truth I may out-shout the storm 
in vain attempt to formulate the norm 
designed by Star Wraith to contain the soul 
that spirals waves across the sandy shoal 
I wade across to island of the fool 
who secretly invents the useful tool. 

I dream about my house on River Styx 
where nameless fairies play conceptual tricks 
that bind my spirit with frail spider skein 
to keep me safe along the country lane, 
yet I name every ghost inside its walls 
since they prefer to dwell in waterfalls. 

Though quality of darkness is desire, 
I choose to leave the grand cathedral choir 
and journey by myself on signless roads 
to lonely meadows of the singing toads 
who teach me secret of psychic pretense 
when I breathe light from nakedness of sense. 

From cold colliding rockets of the mind 
I wander endless garden of the blind 
who gather mute in menace of our fate 
to never breach the weird celestial gate 
with stiff excitement of the psychic spark 
since joy attends our picnic in the park. 

I keep my memories in the secret box 
Pandora gave me with key to its locks 
because she wants to understand the tune 
that rings from sea waves of the tidal moon, 
so we sit chatting by the rune-star well 
on mossy stones till ringing of the bell. 

With careful attention to my world view 
I assemble puzzle pieces I drew 
to recite strange names of the disappeared, 
ambiguous with demons I once feared, 
though the sea pauses when the truth is told, 
because the book of wisdom never sold. 

Look for me each day on the vacant shore 
as you paint my face on the unlocked door, 
and watch for my postcards from edge of time 
which prove our hearts beat in rhythm with slime 
for we have found the ancient Golden Path 
first blazed and named by faith of Melkhizath. 

Heal Our Hidden Wounds

Heal Our Hidden Wounds
© Surazeus
2024 12 13

The proper subject for my exile dreams 
remains harsh suffering humans must endure, 
tales of courage fragile people express 
through clever jokes prophets relate on stage 
which elicits laughter from broken hearts 
to heal our hidden wounds with solemn hymns. 

Entangled spells of selfless sacrifice 
exhibit noble purpose of pure hearts 
with public deeds performed to benefit 
non-profit organizations which fund 
administrative fees to manage tasks 
designed to cite outdated empathy. 

Stuck halfway between ringing of church bells 
and rumble of truck engines before dawn, 
he calculates progress based on false worth 
procedures reflect, flushed with exercise 
minds activate through formulas of sense, 
compounding profits from veiled images. 

Reluctant to translate ornate Devilspeak, 
construed by legal double-talk to rate 
regressive health in plunging phase of shock, 
he studies deceptive analysis 
that loosens faith in miraculous cures, 
deadened by despair from relentless pain. 

So, if you get sick in America, 
prepare to endure anguish of contempt 
heaped on your head by Darwinian officials 
who sneer at weakness as badge of disgust, 
believing only the fittest survive 
relentless attack of lusting viruses. 

If you are suffering disease undeserved, 
they laugh that God has rejected your prayer 
since he will throw you away in the trash 
of genetic failures, while they achieve 
impressive feats of strength and mastery, 
favored by fate to generate new life. 

They rejoice in their superior condition, 
designed by God to rule over the weak 
with right to exploit labor of our hands, 
enriching bank accounts at our expense, 
so they sail yachts to tour the war-torn world 
while we work in their factories of need. 

Yet in our common hunt for whom to blame 
with raucous howling of demonic rage, 
we fight each other with elaborate jokes 
for who holds right by privilege of birth 
to live as puppets in my exile dream, 
and who would be erased from flash of time. 

Buzz Of Countless Brains

Buzz Of Countless Brains
© Surazeus
2024 12 13

Though I lie in bed with the millionth star 
who teaches me weird measurement of time, 
I stand inside the wind that never moves 
to analyze progression of thought grooves 
that wake me at the subtle ringing chime 
which indicates I might have gone too far. 

Apparent light of fate is so intense 
I hear electric buzz of countless brains 
that dream so many different views of life 
I never have to tell my faceless wife, 
for we are opposite sparkle of rains 
which fill our hollow hearts grown too immense. 

My tale extends beyond the last page turned 
for I create my fate by how I choose 
what actions to perform on stage of fear 
which brings the shining Seraphim too near 
so I investigate forbidden clues 
to find my sacred grove that love had burned. 

I feel confusion swell large as the sky 
starred bright with eyes of angels who reveal 
dire consequence of each new gambled choice 
which magically transforms space through my voice 
that charges truth in accord with the real 
so clear in time-lapse visions of my eye. 

Tenebrous truth of passion strangers share 
seals random luck as fortune time secures 
when we decide to bind our rival hearts 
as marriage partners pulling apple carts 
who vow all Death throws at us love endures 
one hundred years of solitude we fare. 

I am the mountain embraced by her moon 
because we savor calm togetherness 
in silent nights when trees pray for our souls 
which thrive ascending phases of our roles 
creating perfect art from loneliness 
to translate shadows in soft sea-wave tune. 

When wheel of time falls through concentric air 
we weave our bodies into water sprites 
who wake as children signified by names 
determined by how they play social games 
congealed from chaos in religious rites 
performed by players at the country fair. 

Her eyes are golden pools of psychic worth 
that keep me tethered by chord of her heart 
vibrating cosmic melodies of faith 
so we become concepts of the Word Wraith 
mapped by tales of our children on star chart 
which guides their quest around our spinning Earth. 

Ruby Phoenix Idol

Ruby Phoenix Idol
© Surazeus
2024 12 13

When sea stones apply purity of thought 
to how we map the spinning world with roads, 
her heart wakes from disconcerting contempt 
with vain hope to alleviate despair 
that she will arrive at her final goal 
on her quest to heal from childhood abuse. 

Focusing attention of sharp respect 
on essential force contriving smooth shape, 
she carves delicate spirit of bold hope 
in shining ruby to release pure light 
beaming from elusive core of its being, 
till its Phoenix spreads frail elegant wings. 

Young scholar browsing crowded jewelry shop 
becomes entranced by ruby Phoenix idol 
that seems to rise in flames from open egg, 
so he pays ten silver coins with shy smile, 
then carries it with care in busy streets, 
dodging wagons heap with goods several times. 

Setting ruby Phoenix on writing desk, 
the scholar studies philosophic texts 
composed on scrolls of slender bamboo slips 
so he can pass the national exam, 
gazing often at idol of rebirth 
for inspiration when he feels discouraged. 

When his father is accused of tax fraud, 
embezzling funds he collects for the state, 
the scholar is sold into slavery, 
and ruby idol of the reborn bird 
is sold at auction to old merchant man 
who takes it by caravan to the west. 

Shining brightly among trinkets and rings, 
the ruby Phoenix stays invisible 
till young woman in square of Samarkand 
sees ancient spirit of fire in its form, 
so she sets it on mantle of the hearth 
where she raises children under its care. 

Two hundred years the ruby Phoenix guards 
descendants of the princess ruling Turan 
in prosperous empire of craftsmen and poets, 
till gang of rebels penetrate the palace 
and young carpenter, fighting for world justice, 
claims the enchanting idol for his own. 

While his great-grandson sails Atlantic Ocean, 
the ruby Phoenix falls into dark waves 
and spirals down in bottomless abyss 
where it lies gleaming with primal starlight 
for eighty thousand years of spinning change, 
till I feel it glow in my heart today. 

Build New Democracy

Build New Democracy
© Surazeus
2024 12 13

No one falls out of towers any more, 
unless they get struck by airplanes or bombs 
in global war against democracy, 
yet still we call on Rapunzel to sing 
inspiring anthems for the people lost 
in funhouse of distorted politics. 

If we rip up stories of ancient myths 
about the man who died to save the world, 
and change the names of gods none worship now, 
we think we can salvage our lost republic 
from rubble of regret, shattered by lies, 
but we just fool ourselves with fantasies. 

Well-dressed prophets on television shows 
predict the false future they want to happen 
where faceless men who pay their salaries 
dictate what angle on the news they preach, 
so they shout facts till their lies become truths 
that blind our eyes to real dangers we face. 

Glass towers of New Ilium shine bright 
with beacon of Liberty, which reveals 
maze of Manhattan where criminals lurk 
in clean business suits that disguise their greed 
as free hand of the market they assert 
right to exploit our labor for their gain. 

Since no one in the tower dares expose 
machinations by the Wizard of Oz 
to manipulate unfettered market scams, 
Luigi leaps out of the video game 
to shoot the devil in blue business suit 
with bullets deny, depose, and defend. 

Wiser than Cassandra, whose prophecies 
of disaster that will befall the state 
from arrogant greed no one would believe, 
Rapunzel tries to warn America 
of our dire fate if the petulant boy 
Paris crowns himself new world emperor. 

We have no Hector to defend our state 
against destructive madness of Achilles 
who leads gang of thugs, blinded by despair, 
to storm the Capitol with bats of rage 
so Paris could declare himself the king, 
and crown his prostitute our Beauty Queen. 

Yet after fall of Ilium from greed, 
the wandering Trojan refugees from war 
founded new republic on seven hills, 
so though our free America may fall 
when the tyrant tries to crown himself king, 
we will build new democracy with Justice. 

Unface On The Moon

Unface On The Moon
© Surazeus
2024 12 12

This universe is a meaningless flash 
of light congealed into organic souls 
who ache with passion to understand why, 
but since we know we are products of fate 
randomly generated, we can savor 
beauty of this meaningless universe. 

Alone in silence of the everywhere, 
I sing about strange beauty I perceive 
in human actions to evade cruel death 
when we sing and dance with graceful despair 
in play which distracts people for a while 
because death will take us all in time. 

The star that falls from heaven in my hand 
explains to me how light creates my soul 
so I float my heavy heart on the lake 
to feel waves swirling me into the sky 
where dust motes of my body refract rays 
to telecast my unface on the moon. 

With each word I sing in the silent void 
I build bridge of the present from my past 
with animating artifacts of thought 
connecting many perspectives in one 
so we become stories we like to tell 
till our history gets twisted into myth. 

When I break open dragon egg of fate 
I feel the Ungod of the Universe 
release my spirit from my yesterday, 
so I walk outside garden walls of fear 
to get lost in the forest of my dreams 
which always lead me back to my real home. 

After I leave safe walls of paradise, 
I cross the waste land of ten thousand ghosts, 
I climb the mountain of ten thousand gnomes, 
I sail the ocean of ten thousand sprites, 
and yet I always find myself back home, 
rising out of the ground with angel wings. 

Walking awkwardly backward without feet 
to erase every road I blazed on Earth, 
I spark awake cacophony of faith 
to sing electric body of my soul 
with strange new vision of what always is, 
repeatedly reborn from nevermore. 

Out of the water in ship of my soul, 
I pull my fellow travelers from hell 
when we breathe deep ethereal voice of love 
so we can speak the countless languages 
the ocean programs in our spongy brains 
as we create meaning from random thoughts. 

One Leaf That Falls

One Leaf That Falls
© Surazeus
2024 12 12

I do not need anyone to understand 
secret passions I keep hid in my heart 
for I am who I am no matter what, 
hiding my angst behind mask I keep bland 
as shield deflecting greed of hungry creeps 
who want to possess my bodyless soul. 

I am no Bodhisattva of the heart, 
though I am always awakening more 
on path of enlightenment in the gloom 
where I sweep away bad thoughts with the broom 
till I become blind shadow of the door, 
done before I had any chance to start. 

Drunk with sweet sorrow of the laughing moon, 
I trample lilacs of conceptual joy 
that bloomed last in the doorway of despair, 
though I tell anyone I do not care 
about the frog that jumps in the still pond 
to shatter placid happiness of hope. 

I cannot meditate on nothingness 
to achieve pure state of arrogant bliss 
because my brain considers every fact 
as puzzle piece I must fit in world view 
to now unshatter mirror of my mind 
by binding hurricane of dreams with verse. 

Collecting fragments of weird sentences 
dead philosophers scratched in waste-land dust, 
I weave new tapestry of global truth 
that appears in eyes of everyone else 
as wild conspiracy of surreal jokes 
about the man whose sons reign as world kings. 

This old face of mine I see in the mirror 
resembles faces on statues of kings 
carved from stone on sprawling cathedral walls, 
and giant statues of old Roman gods 
that lounge in fountain pools of ancient towns, 
so I chuckle at jokes Fate plays on me. 

Relieved I am free to live my own life 
without weight of duty crowning my head, 
I leave kingdoms my ancestors designed 
as heap of stones from fallen walls of fear 
scattered as characters in fairy tales 
that record tragedy of their success. 

I am one leaf that falls in loneliness 
of stable oneliness inside my heart 
with lively laughter at joke of this life 
where I perform new god-role I invent 
against conventions of the global state 
to prove my genius is contrived by fate. 

Spirit Of Christ Mithras

Spirit Of Christ Mithras
© Surazeus
2024 12 12

When I pass by the shopping mall in town 
I see the face of Mithras in the glass, 
so I pause in glare of the winter sun 
and remember Christ Mithras with a prayer 
whose birthday at Christmas we celebrate, 
reborn from the soul-cleansing cave of dreams. 

When villagers out in the countryside 
were trapped inside their safe log cabin homes 
buried by several feet of blizzard snow, 
King Wenceslaus, descendant of Christ Mithras, 
drove sleigh heaped with bags of food over fields 
to find smoke curling from chimneys in snow. 

Sliding down the stone chimney of each house, 
Saint Wenceslaus, now known as Santa Claus, 
brought bags of food and goods to every home 
so peasants trapped by snow could feast and sing, 
exchanging gifts their kind-hearted king brought, 
and cheered as he continued in the night. 

So many peasants trapped by blizzard snow 
remembered visits on dark winter nights 
when Good King Wenceslaus with hearty laugh 
appeared with sudden joy in ashen hearths, 
bringing meat, cakes, and bottles of ripe wine, 
then left them singing to dispel despair. 

Christ Mithras and his wise Bohemian son, 
though long ago have passed from dream of time, 
remain as shining idols of good cheer, 
embodied by the man who works all year 
to help people of our nation he serves 
achieve best skills their talents help them earn. 

No living men these days in halls of power, 
who sit in seat of judgment we respect, 
could channel selfless love Christ Mithras gave, 
for soon our nation of democracy 
will be controlled by cruel tyrant of greed, 
Midas who steals wealth from our working hands. 

Beset by Midas, opposite of Mithras, 
our nation, that was thriving from hard work 
of citizens who respect fair law courts, 
will soon collapse from clamor of blind thieves 
emboldened to exploit our work for wealth 
till everyone fights for their gain in vain. 

When our noble state, based on principle 
of equal justice through freedom for all, 
collapses from civil war over wealth, 
will spirit of Christ Mithras rise again 
and save our republic from tyranny 
when we elect President Wenceslaus. 

Bee Of His Soul

Bee Of His Soul
© Surazeus
2024 12 12

While ravens flutter about maple trees, 
Aurorus wanders flippantly concerned 
around tall trunks in endless spiral swirls, 
collecting eggs and mushrooms from the ground, 
thin fingers placing each with ginger care 
in poorly woven baskets on his arm. 

Wind scatters leaves along his foot-worn paths 
as if to warn him with portentous vibe 
that something terrible may soon occur, 
but young Aurorus with long tangled hair 
stays focused on acquiring from the Earth 
treasures that may energize his dim soul. 

The white horse stands alone in shallow pool 
near leafless oak tree twisted by harsh winds, 
and never moves, except to flick her tail, 
while Aurorus steps slowly toward her glow 
with Apple of Eris as gift in his hand, 
feeling as if her eyes see in his mind. 

Crack of broken branch in shadowed woods 
alerts Aurorus to beast lurking near, 
so he leaps forward just in time to shield 
white horse from bullet of arrogant fear 
fired by the sneering bandit with one eye, 
who growls startled he fails to kill his prey. 

Just as the silver bullet forged from greed 
pierces heart of Aurorus with contempt, 
his gentle innocence transforms brass shell 
to honey bee with crystal rainbow eyes 
that weaves his soul with matrix of god mind 
so he becomes aware of everything. 

Expanding mirror eye of boundless thought 
flares forth from first flash of the bright big bang 
to swell humongous womb of galaxies 
that mold gas clouds in spinning globes of hope 
which sprout organic creatures from deep seas, 
and wakes as Aurorus flat on his back. 

Staring at magic circle of the sky, 
crystal mandala interlaced with squares 
stamped with figures of alchemical runes 
that slowly spins flash of atomic gears, 
Aurorus perceives with telescope eyes 
time-flowing matrix of the universe. 

Though baskets of herbs lie strewn in the pool, 
Aurorus stands and hugs neck of the horse 
who nudges his hand for apple to eat, 
but he feels weird buzz deep inside his heart 
so he opens his mouth wide as the sky 
for bee of his soul to impregnate Earth. 

Ecstatic Beauty Of Fame

Ecstatic Beauty Of Fame
© Surazeus
2024 12 11

Fame seems to be the random accident 
of bright attention focused on some soul 
who unwittingly accesses weird key 
which unlocks sympathy of careful hope 
in jaded hearts of millions who observe 
reflection of their feelings in brave action. 

Yet center of our flowing stream of thought 
collapses and reforms expansive faith 
from general self-esteem when opposites 
connect in puzzle of bored merriment 
random concepts that compose the whole scene 
based on intuition we share with fate. 

I am the reason trees try to explain 
existence without meaning in new shape 
contrived by ocean waves that swirl in minds 
of children eager to paint on blank sky 
portrait of god which imitates the man 
who smiles when teaching them how to survive. 

This prayer I offer to indifferent seas 
frames humble subject of the nameless man 
who gathers oysters from shallow mudflats 
to cook sweet stew for lost war refugees 
who haunt untold stories of novelists 
exploring pain in words to earn world fame. 

These ruined buildings of our past we score 
with bloodless numbers streaked across our face 
usurp our reason to have faith in man 
who spends all day painting angel of death 
with amorphous shadow of arrogance 
too simple for lost souls to understand. 

Our glorious centuries collapse in jokes 
solemn priests recite at our funerals 
beside buildings that still burn with state greed 
archived in caves of rancid circumstance 
till history surprises us with strange fate 
incumbent on the hero getting born. 

True color of melancholy highlights 
ecstatic beauty of fame who decides 
with vampire-earnest lust who benefits 
from wealth of psychic energy transposed 
from hearts of worshippers to mortal gods 
who forget how to play the part they earned. 

Apple trees blossom in void of my heart 
when I join you on the swing in the park 
with vague amazement of unspoken prayer 
to relate tragic tale of my downfall 
from famous vampire to forgotten god 
as marble statue buried in fake dreams. 

Steorberht The Astronaut

Steorberht The Astronaut
© Surazeus
2024 12 11

No reason for dollars to fall with snow 
and shroud city streets in quiet despair 
yet the girl in the red dress walks alone, 
holding the balloon with soul of the wolf, 
and the old mad prophet jumps off the bridge, 
thinking he can fly high on angel wings. 

Each dollar bill that flutters to the street 
imagines itself the last butterfly, 
yet the woman who floats down from the sky 
under umbrella of social reform 
calls out to the girl who hides her wild wolf 
when the mad prophet sinks into the sea. 

The butterfly that lands on the car roof 
thinks everything yellow must be the sun, 
yet the girl with the camera in her purse 
hurries past the mad prophet with pearl eyes 
who asks if she wants to buy angel wings, 
so she hides in the novel on the bench. 

The mad prophet with stolen angel wings 
asks the woman with the gun in her mouth 
if she would like to dance on bridge of hope, 
yet the girl who transforms into the wolf 
explains to the policeman with six arms 
she found the camera in the burning church. 

Dollar bills delicate as flakes of ash 
swirl upward from the writhing flames of fire 
burning in Notre Dame cathedral spire, 
yet mad prophet climbs flying buttresses 
and sits with the gargoyles safe under stars 
to watch Death searching for the wild wolf girl. 

Still in love with Steorberht the astronaut, 
the wolf girl takes pictures of the church fire 
with the camera she stole from Lucifer, 
yet the woman who captures nameless ghosts 
smiles as she tends the mad prophet with love 
who shows her jewels he found in the sea. 

Enchanted by glow of her moon-black eyes, 
Steorberht kisses the wolf girl with sweet love, 
so she takes him in restored Notre Dame 
with pillars and walls gleaming white as milk, 
then sings heart-breaking hymn of honest fear 
when he places crown of hope on her head. 

Annoyed Steorberht has stolen the spotlight, 
mad prophet gives him arcane book of spells, 
yet the shy astronaut fails to go mad, 
instead he crowns wolf girl queen of the damned 
who sing hymns of despair in angel choir 
when falling dollar bills turn into snow. 

Home Of My Ancestors

Home Of My Ancestors
© Surazeus
2024 12 11

I see the world the same as no one else 
so I will scatter words upon the ground 
and tend them with the tears of lonely souls 
so they will blossom into trees of fruit 
that feed our spirits with ethereal dreams 
till bomb blasts wake us and we stumble lost. 

Just because my grandfather built this house, 
and several generations of our clan 
have lived here one hundred and twenty years, 
does not mean we should leave our hearts attached 
to rooms haunted by our sweet memories 
for our photos have fallen off the walls. 

Though we have never traveled far from home 
more than fifty miles any way at least, 
we can take this opportunity now 
to see the world beyond bounds of our hopes, 
exploring lands where no one welcomes us 
so we keep moving down the signless road. 

The treasures of our family memories, 
toys we played with when were little kids, 
books we read by the fire on winter nights, 
photos of our together happy times, 
presents we gave each other out of love, 
these priceless things mean nothing to us now. 

The world I see with eyes of bitter tears 
is different than the pretty world you see, 
so though we seem to exist on one plane 
we dwell far away on parallel worlds, 
divided by our faith in honest men 
who drive us away and steal all we made. 

Though people tell me some lost prophet said 
arc of the moral universe is long, 
but it bends towards justice, and this inspires 
my heart with hope that I can reacquire 
home of my ancestors stolen from us, 
yet I think this arc bends not fast enough. 

If no judge in any state court of law 
will rule deed of my home returned to me 
and thieves imprisoned for their heinous crime, 
then I will gather army of the lost 
to fight the tyrant on false judgment throne 
in revolution to right every wrong. 

When on the field of battle we charge forth 
and I am shot by bullet of despair, 
bury me by that house long burned to ash 
so I can claim that I have returned home, 
then eat apples that ripen from this tree 
which grows now from the sorrow of my heart. 

Accidents Of Natural Change

Accidents Of Natural Change
© Surazeus
2024 12 10

With the walking cane made of dragon bone 
I will traverse the mountain of the world 
to stand beside the ancient twisted tree 
and feel wild clouds burning sorrow from me, 
but back home by the hearth the cat lies curled 
as I explore dark lands of dreams alone. 

When I am on the signless road of hope 
somewhere far beyond the last city zone 
I will gaze into the bright pool at me feet 
and ask ghost of my father why cold sleet 
stings my heart with knowledge of the star stone 
that leads me ever higher up the slope. 

While we are accidents of natural change, 
evolving by chance from sparkles of light 
that float with careless passion in the sea, 
I push against the wind of what is free 
to test bound limitations of the right 
that leaves me laughing on the Texas range. 

Though darkness hovers over me with wings 
reflecting all that happens on the Earth, 
I choose to not participate in games 
men fight for power of celestial names, 
imagined puzzle of the fractured worth 
richer than wisdom of lost magic rings. 

Desire for pleasure hidden in wet soil 
still motivates my tending fields of flowers, 
concealing silent rage in songs of birds 
who steal fruit seeds arranged as haughty words 
so I decide to build ten thousand towers 
which imitate code from genetic coil. 

Time would leave me stranded on the peak 
of every mountain I have dared to climb 
since heart-broken witch on the radio 
waits for me on her palace patio, 
so I emerge from her pool with sweet lime 
that proves I am the one she wants to seek. 

The wood stork at the Homosassa Springs 
asks me if I remember scriptural truth 
regarding laws for how the king behaves, 
so I tour nightclubs in huge ocean caves, 
performing shows as sly messiah sleuth 
guarded by the concept of angel wings. 

Living in forest of ten thousand trees, 
I find the special mask of fate you wore 
beneath the giant fractured skull of god, 
which explains why I joined the justice squad, 
but now I work at the small-town book store 
recording wrong lyrics for rhapsodies. 

Born For The Spotlight

Born For The Spotlight
© Surazeus
2024 12 10

She keeps abandoning herself to sorrow 
to dance with joyful passion in the rain 
as she sings, "I was born for the spotlight," 
then curls into soft terror of tomorrow, 
swallows random pills to mitigate pain, 
and floats alone in namelessness of night. 

She applies pink lipstick to hide her misery, 
then bursts into the room with skillful rage 
of confidence in gray suit and red scarf 
to berate the harried staff for mistakes 
that could cost the company monthly profits, 
then struts off when the director shouts, "Cut!" 

She hides her star-bright eyes behind sunglasses 
while lurking in the crowded shopping mall, 
but someone recognizes her star aura, 
and soon excited fans corner the actress 
like pack of wild dogs the elegant vixen, 
so she panics and flees in thin high heels. 

She peers squinting in glare of the spotlight 
that shields her fragile soul from adoration, 
then steps forward with invisible crown 
and asseverates, "Yet do I fear your nature, 
much too full of the milk of human kindness," 
then steps back and tries to make herself air. 

She glares at his back when he turns away, 
and gasps with despair, "So you run again, 
escaping, as you sneer, the harridan, 
for I always seem to change with each day, 
another stranger wearing my old face," 
then turns, knowing he will not come embrace her. 

She cradles the little girl in her arms, 
staring shocked at her sweet innocent face 
smudged with ash and gashed by bomb-blasted brick, 
then sobs with despair as light of her soul 
dissipates into haze of helpless love, 
and keeps weeping after the scene is done. 

She reads lines of poetry from the book 
"Deathless Mother" that swirl in harmony 
with ocean waves curling around her feet, 
then grins wryly, "It appears I will never 
find the real me behind the masks I wear, 
for I have become every role I played." 

She keeps finding herself in dreams of horror, 
running through the maze of theater halls, 
as she sings, "I was born for the spotlight," 
then stares at her real unself in the mirror, 
framed posters of her movies on stained walls, 
and floats with us in namelessness of light. 

Function Of My Brain

Function Of My Brain
© Surazeus
2024 12 10

Geared contraption of flexible syntax 
traps fluid concepts in receptive words 
I advance to express amorphous flash 
of feelings based on sharp analysis 
my brain contrives by puzzling random facts 
in cosmic theory I assign to life. 

My genes gather atomic energy 
of flashing atoms to weave neural net 
of memory nodes in galactic-shaped brain 
which conjures virtual world of conscious mind 
aware of itself as immortal god 
contained in temporary mortal man. 

This conscious mind unique to my one brain 
is function fueled by flashing molecules 
which generates vision in whole world view 
organizing objects in framed landscape 
so I am subject that perceives my world 
of changing bodies within changeless scope. 

As long as chemicals of flowing change 
fuel conscious mind with sense of unique self, 
my body glows with animating soul, 
asserting right to live with clever strength, 
but when body functions deteriorate 
my consciousness to nothing dissipates. 

My conscious mind-soul vanishes at death 
because it is no more than glowing field 
which emanates from function of my brain, 
and, though I wish my soul could incarnate 
in other bodies to continue life, 
I must accept that I will disappear. 

When people perform memorable deeds 
in tune with intense flow of energy 
which cause effects of social solvency, 
their face implants its features in our minds 
to stamp its vibrant personality 
on mindless idol conjured by our brains. 

Some people create divine characters 
through consequential actions of desire, 
so, though their body dies and soul dissolves 
in that permanent vanishment of death, 
ghost of their being remains clear in our minds 
and gains immortal state in tales we share. 

When our body dies, our conscious mind dies, 
and our animating soul dissipates, 
but memory of our being set by our life 
remains as trope signified by our name, 
yet when the sun expands to swallow Earth 
all our myths of gods vanish into dust. 

Singing On The Porch

Singing On The Porch
© Surazeus
2024 12 10

Only the sun comes to listen at dawn, 
gleaming at me on porch of the old house, 
where I like to stand in cool drifting mist 
and sing about the beauty of this world 
written in the faces of people I know 
who never hear me sing about their light. 

People like to comfort their broken hearts 
by quoting that light gets in through the cracks, 
and so divine beauty fills up our world, 
yet I want to quibble with this nonsense, 
for all I hear when rain patters the roof 
is tears of souls who cannot mend themselves. 

Young woman who is mother to the lost 
bakes apple pies for wanderers passing by, 
who sit a while on porch of our old house 
and listen to me sing about the light, 
then wave their hands as they walk down the road 
to become ghosts who haunt long afternoons. 

Love is no abstraction of the wild bird 
that flutters wings with arrogant disdain 
at any who attempts to cage their flight, 
so I explore the world beneath the grass 
to hear the song of water in the soil 
which I sing again alone on the porch. 

The porch of this old house is my world stage 
for though I travel all around the world, 
singing on thousands of stages at night 
to ghostly faces half lit by brave stars, 
I remain alone on porch of my house 
with only birds and turtles hearing me. 

My mother tells me with bright cheerful voice 
light of the universe shines through my heart 
when I sing brightly to the lightless world, 
but I feel empty as the hungry sea 
so I eat apple pie on empty porch 
while birds sing to me about secret love. 

Wild boy who hides inside the willow tree 
runs away when I call his secret name, 
and though I walk all over our small town 
I never see him anywhere again, 
so I map the world where he might now be, 
my honey bee too shy to marry me. 

Returning to the porch of my old house, 
after four decades traveling the world, 
I stand alone in late afternoon light 
and sing till the young boy appears again, 
but he grows old when I reach out my hand 
to hold his cute doll in my trembling heart. 

Anthem Of Patriotic Faith

Anthem Of Patriotic Faith
© Surazeus
2024 12 09

The patriot and the nationalist both love 
land where they live with opposite intent 
of conceptual approach, one to respect 
social system designed to provide power 
for every person to fulfill their dreams, 
the other to exploit the poor for wealth. 

I want to love the people of my land 
who share ancestors of my tangled genes 
as common explorers from distant lands 
searching for new paradise free from greed 
of men who exploited our hope for wealth, 
but they want to drive newcomers away. 

Because we stole this new fertile land first 
and built empire to protect paradise, 
we band together with weapons of faith, 
but invaders drove us across the sea 
where we have lived free several centuries 
till our own leaders exploit us for wealth. 

I want to sing with heart-swelling respect 
admiring anthem of patriotic faith 
as we assert our right to dwell in peace, 
but fervor to conquer neighboring lands 
and assimilate their wealth in our game 
disregards sovereignty of our self-rule. 

We escaped oppression of monarchy, 
and have lived with justice and liberty 
as colleagues in our strong democracy, 
but rich men contrive to bend federal laws 
that favor their control of our weak lives 
with their corrupt oligarchy of greed. 

As patriot loyal with honest heart 
to democracy, based on liberty 
and equal justice for each citizen, 
I will fight to preserve our way of life 
against the tyrant and his gang of thieves 
who mutiny to steal our Ship of State. 

Old system of oppression wrecks itself 
on jagged sin of racist arrogance 
that cracks privilege of the wealthy elite 
to free marginalized communities 
with noble mission to construct with faith 
new system where all are equal in law. 

With heart inspired by principle of freedom, 
I perform role of the honest patriot 
instead of the deceptive nationalist 
as we unite against dictatorship, 
pledging allegiance to the flag, not man, 
when we rebuild our free democracy. 

Moral Clock Of Respect

Moral Clock Of Respect
© Surazeus
2024 12 09

I keep turning away from Mirror Mind 
with vain hope this crazy timeline may change 
if I adjust moral clock of respect 
to favor reign of Justice wielding truth, 
but time keeps flipping back off track of fate 
and leaves us stranded in this horror show. 

I want to compile in new global book 
prophecies every poet in black cloak 
has written with blood on museum walls 
dating when Minerva leads our crusade 
to hurl cruel tyrant from the judgment throne, 
and free women from shackles of male law. 

Two roads diverging in dark woods of war 
appear to lead our way to different fates, 
but I see one result at end of both 
where vile gangsters imprison Liberty 
so their false messiah with gun of rage 
oppresses people of America. 

From crowded maze of city streets I run 
to find bright meadow where butterflies dance 
carefree along shore of the River Styx 
so I could proclaim with wise confidence 
new age of fair justice applied to all, 
but loud clouds of tyranny blank my voice. 

No matter how I apply calm intent 
with fragile courage of the hopeful fool 
to readjust moral clock of respect, 
so Fortune favors bold sincerity 
aligning timeline on straight track of truth, 
hostile men strike to control how we think. 

Distorting truth of honest sentiment 
back-twisted by brute repetitive lies, 
fierce minions of the tyrant falsely frame 
good intentions of justice warriors 
to brazenly obstruct programs that aid 
normal people with support of the law. 

Though we confirm our souls with self-control, 
strengthened by liberty within the law, 
we stumble disconcerted by foul lies 
hazing objective goal our hearts aspire 
in plot to misdirect creative force 
of our attention to build new world view. 

I keep returning back to Mirror Mind 
with resilient faith that Justice prevails 
as we attend to clandestine programs 
designed to straighten with legal respect 
correct timeline where Justice reigns with faith 
to preserve state of our democracy.