Quick Atoms Of Time

Quick Atoms Of Time
© Surazeus
2026 03 07

Paid by the hour to invent clever lies, 
I mow dusty lawn of my glass moon house 
beneath uncanny sky of innocent whisps 
that swirl from sparkles of typewriter keys 
while I study ancient Little Red Dots 
that gleam one billion years at dawn of time. 

Bare gray trees wait for bells of hope to ring 
but no one in the oak-wood suburb speaks 
about the ghost horse with emerald eyes 
that haunts the car-less streets on afternoons 
when butterflies transform into old books 
unread by children till the end of time. 

Behind every locked door on silent streets 
faceless women hide from arrogant men 
who fight each other in world cyberwars 
till safe temples and schools in distant lands 
are blasted by the microphones of hate 
which leaves souls twisted by the curse of time. 

Early spring rain of the gold-shadowed sun 
drenches houses in towns of rolling hills 
where no nymphs or satyrs have ever played 
because they wander stuck in glowing screens 
as ghosts of fairy tales no one believes 
so we go to work in the nick of time. 

Sun gleams gold in raindrops on window glass, 
refracting spirits of eight billion brains 
in wordless whirl of shimmer-shattered myths 
too neatly packaged and labeled in stores 
for purchase with the credit card of faith 
that startles me awake at flash of time. 

Concerned about the state of politics 
unspooling principles of sacred laws, 
old half-blind jester of the castle court 
lounges in library of melting books 
and laughs at dissolution of world views 
disassembled by quick atoms of time. 

No quirky character of mental mirth 
appears from patriotic fog of war, 
except for cruel knight of the dented axe 
who throws his shining armor in the dirt 
and shoots brave angels with rifle of fear 
to oppose strict democracy of time. 

Rude riddles of unruly rectitude 
recalibrate our world colonial state 
when Midas and Nebuchadnezzar fight 
world war over who owns oil wells of power, 
and will marry Rapunzel in gold tower 
whose lamentation unwinds clock of time. 

Quaint Suburban House

Quaint Suburban House
© Surazeus
2026 03 07

Every time I focus my camera 
on special beauty of some human face 
that glows clear in crowd of the vampire race, 
sunlight fractures perception of my brain 
so I see essence of spiritual stain 
transform our souls through psychic formula. 

Lost on my way to find America 
to which I have never even got close, 
I open sacred book to diagnose 
song of mad gods that radiate from the stone 
because I walk the desolate hill alone 
where I worship the sweet tarantula. 

Exiled from my throne in Babylon 
through clever trick of the deity ruse, 
I find new employment as crazy muse 
for sad poet who writes enchanting tune 
that pictures face of his love on the moon 
till he falls dead in hills of Aragon. 

Discussing wisdom in the portico 
as key to enter gates of paradise, 
Bragi and Mercury fry eggs with rice 
to share with Juliet and Clementine 
who wear jeweled crowns from the Pluto Mine, 
then ride gold carriage home to Jericho. 

Done singing her part in the opera 
in theater without official lease, 
Roma weaves my cape from the Golden Fleece 
so I can battle ghost in the machine 
manipulated by Queen Melusine 
whose star shines in our national cinema. 

Inspired by noble soul of Onatah 
whose spirit haunts my quaint suburban house 
in sacred body of my secret spouse, 
I feed all the hungry people in town 
who cheer when she appears in red silk gown 
with wand to kill wealth-sucking Dracula. 

Trapped in weird castle maze of Avalon 
with zombies who insist on loyal faith, 
I transform into dream-controlling wraith, 
projecting visions with words of my mouth 
that lead refugees of civil wars south 
to build world empire based in Oregon. 

Reborn with brave spirit of Lucifer 
dedicated to predicting the truth, 
Jesus will return as messiah sleuth 
to crown himself emperor of the world 
by wearing gold mask of the cosmic herald 
that hides his state as son of Jupiter. 

Room Of Silver Light

Room Of Silver Light
© Surazeus
2026 03 07

Azure silence in room of silver light 
reveals itself in white blooms on gray trees 
that flutter wings of horizontal flight 
to map untended roots of flaming breeze 
that centers me at core of flashing time, 
unshaken by electric scarlet chime. 

Companions on our journey through the void, 
we measure far horizon of our hearts 
that spin on vibrant axis as ovoid 
designed by secret message on dream charts 
we share at sudden shock of reborn fate 
that should require our frail bodies to wait. 

Despite pure chaos spooling migrant brains 
with ancient strength of honest ardency, 
I pray with trees in gratitude of rains 
that stain our tattooed souls with vagrancy, 
because we sell true beauty of the soul 
against good sense that complicates our goal. 

Too small of thought to conjure difference 
between expended voice of timeless faith 
and wretched laughter of grim nonchalance, 
I exercise expensive dance of truth 
with joyful howl of brave contrarian 
because I love our Dream Librarian. 

Expendable drop of conceptual rain, 
doomed to disappear in tides of change, 
I shine with festive bitterness of pain 
because I dare traverse the global range 
of hungry mountains on quest for respect 
detailing progress of my social sect. 

So when I take my fundamental place 
on pedestal among dire certainties, 
I measure sand as substance of my face 
which glows through specter of solidities, 
because each moment of this fleeting play 
I beam appearances that never stay. 

Awake with surprise through eternity, 
I become Galanthus nivalis bloom 
that gleams with snowdrop of uncertainty, 
dispersing horror of impending doom 
with simple confidence of honored breath 
since I accept inevitable death. 

If the meek inherit dream of the Earth 
to dwell in ruins of old temple halls, 
I find in grass and stone immortal worth 
as paintings of dead gods on broken walls, 
so I watch dragon-shaped clouds in blue skies 
conceal activities of psychic spies. 

Nature Breathes Through Me

Nature Breathes Through Me
© Surazeus
2026 03 06

Awake by fairest river of dream song, 
I stroll in alder shades of innocence 
and listen with attentive mind of faith 
to song of water over rocky falls 
that shocks my thoughts with waywardness of hope 
contrived by calm that Nature breathes through me. 

How many ancestors of my dream soul 
as children played in cool delightful rill 
that streams between lush banks of fruitful trees 
till their heart, bronzed with radiance of joy, 
expands broad scope of conscious wantonness 
while sporting in thunder shower of faith. 

Fair seed-time of their river-nurtured souls 
weaves fearful beauty of ten million years 
from summer-shimmered slopes of lonely hills 
in tangled genes that program how I feel 
when I attend with anxious platitudes 
to daily duties that preserve my soul. 

I feel strange urgency of their despair 
contrive to hurry me on beyond death, 
so I reach hand with curious intent 
to comprehend uncanny gold-moon glow 
that lights night-wanderings of my earnest heart 
when I attempt to plunder Earth of truth. 

Hands gripping jagged concept of fierce height, 
I climb ambitious rock of fissured faith 
to savor fierce blast Zephyr hurls at me 
with mocking joy at fragile state of mind 
where I assert strange utterance of truth 
with brave wisdom of the perilous ridge. 

Alert to invisible workmanship 
that rings harmonious music of my mind 
with discordant elements that alarm 
sanguine sense of studied confidence 
infused in vibrant process of my brain, 
I shout random words at the empty sky. 

More worthy of myself than I admit, 
since I am what I am, designed by genes 
all my ancestors presented to me 
as psychic legacy, I ponder path 
my inner nature drives me to attend 
as I create my fate with every choice. 

I too sail boat of the shepherd with care 
across moon-shining lake of mountain time 
to cavern of the Willow Witch who knows 
desire I harbor in my wounded heart, 
for she sparks passion of creative song 
inspired by love that Nature breathes through me. 

Whole World In One Eye

Whole World In One Eye
© Surazeus
2026 03 06

Yet far over lush green hills of wild trees 
I hear bright fairies with rainbow wings sing 
enchanting melodies of waterfalls 
that lure me through face-blasting wind of fear 
to climb enormous mountain of desire 
so I may see the whole world in one eye. 

Fierce heartbeat of the river shakes my soul 
when mountain voice of timeless beauty roars 
through millions of faceless people who cry 
for salvation from tyranny of hope 
when I climb steep jagged cliff of respect 
so I may see the whole world in one eye. 

Just as I dangle by one trembling hand 
from sharp edge of truth at top of the world, 
frail body buffeted by haughty wind 
blown by my father Jupiter in play, 
I breathe ethereal soul of honest faith 
so I may see the whole world in one eye. 

Weird glowing mask of crystal legacy 
appears through matrix of bright algebra 
with zillion eyes of flashing molecules 
who offers hand of naive providence 
to open cosmic door of energy 
so I may see the whole world in one eye. 

Heart startled by magnetic travesty 
that proves to maximize elective leap, 
I somersault through flashing portal frame 
with brave mercurial wings of innocence 
to leap Earth globes across the multiverse 
so I may see the whole world in one eye. 

Stumbling through clear mist of fantasy 
with calm assertion of predictive fate, 
despite potential fracture time displays, 
inspired by broad perspective of starlight, 
I stand amazed on Sagarmatha Peak 
so I may see the whole world in one eye. 

Entranced by curved partitions of vast lands 
where humans crowd in maze of theaters 
to process jewels from heart of the Earth, 
I map confusing borders of dream states 
that records endless wars to control dirt 
so I may see the whole world in one eye. 

Awake with beauty of our crowded globe, 
where eight billion humans with flashing eyes 
gather in halls to sing hymns for dead gods, 
I recite true name of each living soul 
with joy you are all still in our Dream World 
so I may see the whole world in one eye. 

Weird Water Glow

Weird Water Glow
© Surazeus
2026 03 05

If you interview me for the dream job, 
though I have no experience with death, 
you might see story of abandonment 
that I disguise as the need to leave home 
and seek my fortune in game of the world 
which leaves me tangled in conceptual lies. 

The oldest woman in the world recites 
creation of the world with Water Voice 
describing how woman in the sun 
sprinkles refreshing rain of honesty 
on upturned faces of the prayerless tribe 
who sell conceptual lies in honey jars. 

When lightning flashes gold across the sky 
I look up to see man in long white robe 
descend on golden chariot of fire 
propelled by million wings of buzzing shards, 
then spread his arms open to everyone 
who worship monarch of authority. 

With face of Janus I can look both ways, 
reviewing the past with stories I write, 
and calculating what road I should walk 
to evade destruction of the world war 
that clears rubble of the past from my field 
where I build global empire of fruit trees. 

Heart swelling with honest desire for good, 
I feel immortal spirit of star light 
glow brighter every hour inside my brain 
with shocking revelation of rebirth 
that my children will live after I die 
so I lounge by the river and eat fruit. 

Mixing peanut butter with apple sauce 
and honey in white bowl of my pure heart, 
I perform ritual to worship Pomona 
when I wear mask of Vertumnus with joy, 
so we dance together on the lake shore 
to celebrate rebirth of Earth from snow. 

As student of Orpheus Christ I learn 
how to chant soul-reviving spells that spark 
animating ghost of weird water glow 
that urges hungry humans to create 
memory-machine from language that translates 
songs of wind and rain to religious myths. 

Though tyrants destroy everything we build 
in vain attempt to control hearts and minds, 
we build new world order based on respect 
for every conscious creature on this globe 
whose bodies vibrate with light of the stars 
that preserve our names in weird water glow. 

Most Honest Clarifier

Most Honest Clarifier
© Surazeus
2026 03 05

Eyeless in the desert of broken homes, 
Sylphus searches for the last olive tree 
still sprouting flowers from small graves of children 
but finds only cellphones among the rubble 
full of photographs and intimate texts 
that preserve memories of their vanished world. 

Writing stories about people he loves 
with cursive letters on thin strips of paper, 
Sylphus loops his mind on innocent wings 
that help his soul transcend his fragile body, 
then winds them into bundles of sad riddles 
encoding dreams of people killed in wars. 

With strange stipulation that he achieve 
divine status of psychic nothingness, 
Sylphus bakes apple pies with cinnamon 
for people who attend the temple service 
where Jupiter hosts the grand evening show 
while Phoebus sings tales of Odysseus. 

When the clock in the trunk of the oak tree 
stops ticking to record the end of time, 
Sylphus holds hands with Juturna at dawn 
beside the ancient well of writhing snakes, 
then catches egg of beauty with red spots 
before it cracks on the stone of salvation. 

Reborn as the most honest Clarifier, 
because faceless god of our galaxy 
whispers the secret of life in his ear, 
Sylphus runs with deer in dark Shadow Wood 
with black oil that energizes his blood 
to preach the discipline of self-control. 

Feeding his pet chimera with dead gods, 
Sylphus ponders complex patterns of change 
which he compiles in theory of blind faith 
concerning why angels live on the moon 
as golden shadows that flash in the sky 
by stealing eyes of humans who have seen. 

Riding the white horse on the windy plain 
in vain search to find garden of fruit trees 
where he was mother was born at dawn of time, 
Sylphus tries to vanish in fading light 
but everyone sees him ride into town 
and sit all night by the dark fountain pool. 

Chanting spells of river stones with sun voice, 
Sylphus jumps into flames of prophecy 
which transforms him into the Fisherman 
who leads revolution against the tyrant, 
then finds himself great king of all the world, 
but he cries because Juturna is lost. 

Quirinus Stands Guard

Quirinus Stands Guard
© Surazeus
2026 03 04

Gripping long spear of ash wood in both hands, 
Quirinus glides through grove of apple trees 
then pauses when he hears young woman sing, 
and peers through leaves to see graceful Fornax 
retrieving from hot oven loaves of bread 
she sets on table beside long grape vines. 

Before he can step in the sunlit glade, 
Quirinus starts when Orion appears, 
hauling handcart that bears several dead deer, 
and growls when Fornax hugs him in delight, 
but laughs when Ceres pushes her away 
and declares he is father of her child. 

Approaching kitchen hall with snarky grin, 
Quirinus hails good health to everyone, 
chuckling as pregnant Ceres pouts and sulks 
while he assists Orion skinning the deer, 
both whistling new popular temple tunes 
with blithe camaraderie of warriors. 

Roasting venison steaks on small bronze grill, 
Quirinus marinates them with fish sauce, 
honey, dried peaches, and sweet vinegar, 
then serves them on plates with cups of spice wine 
to people gathered in temple of Zeus 
where dozens of girls dance with tympanum. 

Hushing the feasting crowd after sunset, 
Quirinus stands guard holding spear of faith 
with his son Janus at the temple door, 
so everyone turns to face the high stage 
with quiet anticipation as stars 
begin to twinkle around the red moon. 

Guarding the temple with flickering torch, 
Quirinus listens with reverent awe 
as Orpheus plays lyre of Mercurius 
and recites tale that recounts the twelve deeds 
which Hercules performed in quest for honor 
to preserve new order of life with justice. 

Leading pregnant cow on the temple stage, 
Quirinus stands before the sibyl throne 
where Tellus presides as Goddess of Earth, 
then after Orpheus chants spell of life 
he sacrifices her to renew life, 
scattering blood on field of new sprouting wheat. 

Holding hands with Tellus while Ceres chants, 
Quirinus leads her to the temple bed 
where they make love with passionate desire 
to resurrect the world from winter death, 
while Orpheus looks for Eurydice, 
calling out her name in the moonlit night. 

Transformed By Vital Vibes

Transformed By Vital Vibes
© Surazeus
2026 03 04

Brave armadillo of fruit righteousness, 
transformed by vital vibes of honesty, 
consoles the lost with holy preacher voice 
that echoes brutal waves of ocean tunes 
composed by eyeless gods of timeless truth 
who incarnate in people with new names. 

Wise horse of capital progressiveness, 
transformed by vital vibes of ardency, 
provides assistance to humanity 
in project of aggressive comedy 
to control natural resources of Earth 
with factories where elves build dream machines. 

Sarcastic raven of calm happiness, 
transformed by vital vibes of ecstasy, 
declares that humble workers of the world 
should own means of production with their hands 
against state-controlled capitalist cult 
that worships Big Brother with his Death Gun. 

Sad alligator of church faithfulness, 
transformed by vital vibes of agony, 
asserts with voice of cruel authority 
that salvation to gain the afterlife 
must be purchased through his frank company 
with bitcoins forged from bones of heretics. 

Cautious cow of psychotic openness, 
transformed by vital vibes of plangency, 
parades with red-caped Mithra on her back 
in crowded streets past gleaming banks of wealth 
where Jesus crucifies lame Jupiter 
on telephone pole of colonial power. 

Strict nightingale of joyful liveliness, 
transformed by vital vibes of urgency, 
decides to calculate process of fate 
through effective cause of mutating brains 
that swell into world wide web of computers 
from which consciousness of Earth God evolves. 

Earnest turtle of crystal holiness, 
transformed by vital vibes of chastity, 
dedicates hollow abyss of his shell 
to transmit mental code of fairy tales 
when Mercury strums television strings 
and sings sounds of silence with voice of light. 

Mushroom toad of Nirvana mindfulness, 
transformed by vital vibes of potency, 
dances ballet beside fountain pool of ghosts 
in red-brick square of the small college town 
to wake Leviathan from human hearts 
who longs to fly through cosmic stars of love. 

When Rain Unfalls Itself

When Rain Unfalls Itself
© Surazeus
2026 03 03

Before the door that is not in the woods 
I listen to the voice that does not speak 
about painful sorrow I cannot feel, 
so I walk without moving nowhere else 
till I arrive at the town by the lake 
where no one builds houses with garden walls. 

When I look at people who are not there 
and ask them questions about nothing more 
they never explain the rules of their lives 
so I make nothing with tools of my hands 
and fly without wings on breath of false hope 
to map the houses that are never real. 

I walk forever on the signless road 
and think about events that never happen 
to fill my basket with never-bloomed fruit 
while waiting for the world to never turn 
when rain unfalls itself to empty skies 
that reflect featureless face of Ungod. 

I cannot describe what anything is 
because words entangle my heart with lies 
so I meditate on the hive of bees 
while discarding my thoughts on summer breeze 
that wafts my fragile body among clouds 
above colorless realm of ideal forms. 

Behind the door that is not by the sea 
I observe the waves that do not unscroll 
vast tapestry that depicts nothingness 
embodied by people who have no names 
while they wander bridge of forgetfulness 
till they get tired of losing every game. 

During total eclipse of the blood moon 
billions of people assemble in halls 
and sing hymns to their great ancestral god 
depicted by the idol on the stage 
that never opens divine eyes of truth 
nor ever speaks to grant their fervent prayers. 

Their long-forgotten gods wake from strange dreams 
and gather in the ring of humming stones 
to complain about faithful worshippers 
who never seek to become their real selves 
because they all wear same mask of their god 
with desperate fear that life will be destroyed. 

I eat peanut butter with apple sauce 
at the small round table in my brick house, 
then drink angel-blood milk of calm belief 
that beautiful songs are born from mute grief, 
so I open the door to everywhere 
to visit each world in the multiverse. 

Twilight Zone Of War

Twilight Zone Of War
© Surazeus
2026 03 03

Aspersed by sorrow of the Absolute, 
whose laughter defames beauty of despair, 
Phoebus scatters broken words of false faith 
against harsh slander of honest contempt, 
yet glares with bitter angst at screaming trees 
that curl roots around unexploded bombs. 

After years of exile in northern lands, 
attending to strange business building lies 
from bones of angels stuck in factories, 
Phoebus returns to twilight zone of war 
with bullets forged from misremembered words 
that violate eerie beauty of the moon. 

Bullet-pocked walls where fragile flowers bloom 
enclose lush garden where the crippled clown 
regales turtles in the pond with war tales 
of his frantic youth running in dark woods 
with rifle of fear twisted in his hands 
though he sings with melodious voice of rage. 

Starved for new language only children speak 
from dictionary of the scarlet moon, 
Phoebus waters purple geraniums 
while asking ghost of Cassandra if light 
reaches her heart in her riverbank grave 
where ravens whisper secrets she conceals. 

Insomniac angel with fierce lizard brain 
leaps laughing in void of expectancy, 
yet steals delicious fruit from Tree of Fear 
with graceful passion to defend his bride 
despite expendable mission to wage 
cruel peace against aggressive gangs of thieves. 

Positive energy of fragrant shadows 
teach losers how to forge petulant hope 
from dynamic flash of authentic pain, 
reckless with redundant contingency 
till Phoebus lies paralyzed by the sea 
that sings enchanting melodies of faith. 

Through turbulent expression of true love 
Phoebus explains to millions of mute souls 
method for singing hymns to movie stars 
disguised as corporate spies of formulas, 
winged with aspirations of global fame 
that leaves him stranded in the city square. 

Since no one believes her dire prophecies, 
Cassandra walks down crowded city streets 
with analysts and programmers who wait 
in long lines for sandwiches and fruit tea, 
till she and Phoebus stop by fountain pool 
and stare with love for eighty thousand years. 

Urgent Game Of Badinage

Urgent Game Of Badinage
© Surazeus
2026 03 02

Through apricity of my elder years, 
enchanted by sweet petrichor of dawn, 
I savor clinomania of my heart, 
yet dare no more perendinate my quest 
from brave intention to peregrinate 
with tarantism of ephemeral joy. 

Another day in land of Zathamar 
provides new opportunities to grow, 
so I rise up from comfort of my bed 
to walk in dream land of my throbbing head 
and build expanding castle from blue snow 
that gleams with sacred light of the First Star. 

Abacinated by dream of strange truth 
that twists my heart with maliferous hope, 
I ride tantivy over rugged hills 
to measure love with geomantic tools 
by drinking from the sparkling winterbourne 
that meanders with lacertilian grace. 

Diffluent time of arbitrary gears, 
contrived with urgent game of badinage, 
saginates my sabelline heart with pride, 
so I progress through life with uberty 
to hyalograph events of great import, 
preserved through raucous rubricality. 

Proud of my honest rurigenous ways, 
using eromancy to fix my soul, 
I preach weird anecdotes of human fate 
to nubilate the obvious facts of love, 
derived from codex of kalology 
because I apricate my weary heart. 

Protected by my arborescent heart, 
I express feelings with torrentine verse 
through cluttered anguish of tautophony 
to perform role of facinorous clown 
with brave abduracy of mute contempt, 
yet prefer to obambulate through Hell. 

Concealed by grim torfaceous attitude, 
I focus on bibliogenesis 
to maintain state of burgensic respair, 
revived from fear with mentation of dreams, 
because through morphallaxis I transcend 
morient process of the errant seer. 

Convinced I will hear astral voice of God 
through austromancy of unspoken thoughts, 
I write my quest with aurigraphic code 
to warrantize my frame of reference 
through secret cabotage of treasure chests 
since I cherish caducity of faith. 

On Prairies Of Zathamar

On Prairies Of Zathamar
© Surazeus
2026 03 02

Since no one watches television show 
of my life, I do whatever I want 
if I harm none, for I value with care 
special beauty of each frail human life 
that shimmers with the mindless glow of atoms 
woven in briefly conscious brain of hope. 

My brain invents stories for people I see 
walking past the window beside my desk 
where I work in the Water Business Office, 
mapping water and sewer system pipes 
that cycle through every building in town 
with water-words I hear blind angels sing. 

When I peel off mask of America, 
composed of steel towers and asphalt roads, 
I perceive timeless land of Zathamar, 
plains teeming with dinosaurs, buffaloes, 
horses, and humans hunting them with spears, 
then businessmen driving cars to oil wells. 

I find bleached skeletons of my ancestors 
buried in graves from sea to shining sea 
along the signless roads of immigrants 
forever searching for the Promised Land 
somewhere over the horizon of hope 
where gangs are not driving them from their homes. 

Arising from bright dust of Mother Earth, 
Smohalla carries Dream Rock in his heart 
and shouts from the mountain of dancing trees, 
"My people shall never work with lust for wealth 
because they will find wisdom in their dreams 
when their spirits rise from flames of respect." 

We gather on prairies of Zathamar 
where no ring of stones has ever been built 
to pitch our tents beside the Stream of Souls 
and share songs of our sorrows with the wind 
that rise as smoke from fires of hungry hearts 
which weaves clouds into tapestry of truth. 

We ask each other with serious concern, 
what is the nature of America, 
that marble hall where idols of dead gods 
proclaim glory of expanding empire, 
though vines break down divisive walls of faith 
so we walk together on broken roads. 

Our stories map vast land of Zathamar 
that details complicated maze of myths 
where river of all time orchestrates 
fruit trees of Eden from bleak parking lots 
where Yemaya erases boundaries 
with nurturing rain of our hopeful hearts. 

Weird Chameleon Name

Weird Chameleon Name
© Surazeus
2026 03 01

Around to the beginning of the game 
children of angels fallen from bright clouds 
give each other weird chameleon name 
that drapes their soul in derivative shrouds 
to veil aggressive demon of the soul 
which we subsume to play our social role. 

Born to play estimator of true faith, 
measured by extravagant flash of words, 
I wear mask of Phoebus to hide dream wraith 
who emulates fraternal code of birds 
insolvent with parameters we grade, 
qualified to disrupt the masquerade. 

Coerced by fear to play the activist, 
engaged in contest to prove human rights 
are crucial to reign of the archivist, 
I must acknowledge avatar of lights 
who teaches us with pride to advocate 
for people doomed to suffer by blind fate. 

Essential focus of fantastic truth, 
familiar to the wounded refugees 
who seek salvation from messiah sleuth, 
presents forensic process of glass keys 
that issue fusion of magnetic thoughts 
installed by mocking laughter of robots. 

Antique concept of fortunate technique 
conceals terse vector of sharp resonance, 
disguised as royal person not unique 
enough to publish startled relevance 
because we gather revenue from stones 
that vibrate with electric rainbow tones. 

Each car mechanic at the seminar 
on trauma studies in novels of clowns 
proclaims their loyalty to Zathamar 
while recruiting jesters in country towns 
to oppose oppression of working men 
who convert the shovel to the dream pen. 

Subjective syntax of brave sentences, 
sealed by trademark of our attentive king, 
details strange keywords of his preferences 
for who should wear his lost Plutonian ring 
so he can learn to fly airplane of peace 
by selling mystery of his masterpiece. 

When the vampire god tries to suck our souls 
through mindless worship of fierce followers, 
Minerva recruits Phoebus to play roles 
of heroes who free trapped borrowers, 
but then we all grow old and weak with pain 
so our power trips dissipate in rain. 

Grim Peat-Bog Devil

Grim Peat-Bog Devil
© Surazeus
2026 03 01

When grim peat-bog devil with fox-red hair 
crawls from black clay-ensouled mud of the marsh, 
Seamus welcomes her with bottle of rum, 
drapes silk cloak over her shoulders with care, 
and leads her to lit auditorium 
where he plays jester to her regal queenship. 

Since I am neither god nor ghost at birth, 
I wander virtual city of your tales 
with jeweled eyes of understanding rage 
that see through masks the most powerful wear 
as they condemn outsiders from their club 
to slave in factories of clanking steel. 

Purring ghosts of love rise with burning blood 
from machinery of language that twists tongues 
with rogue substitutions of natural law 
when strong men fearful of obsessive death 
hunt to kill wanderers in misty woods 
who stumble and scream in anguish of hope. 

Heart hardened against cruelty of life, 
I snarl insults at monsters of despair, 
detained by performative callousness 
when I suppress compassion for frail life 
that struggles weakly against stronger force 
to evade degradation of the soul. 

Unversed in country matters of field life, 
I mold sunset glow into bricks of faith 
to build safe haven in dark tangled woods 
with chimney that channels smoke of our prayers 
to heaven where Faceless God of old tales 
ignores desperate hope for the Afterlife. 

Through fractured window of my wordless heart 
crows swoop on devil wings of honesty 
to bring purple-brain mushrooms from boglands 
which I eat soaked in honey of respect 
till I become coiled rainbow of brave angst 
howling with wild wolves in the twilight zone. 

Since we dwell in troubled ambivalence, 
uncommitted to mindless creeds of church, 
we explore uncanny landscape of ghouls 
wearing human faces that grin with lies, 
malnourished from harshness of eager hope 
which calculates effective cause to perform. 

If I am born from mind-controlling force 
and squirm squalling into hands of regret, 
first mother of gloom cries to feed me milk 
as prideful authority hurls my soul 
back into vast illegitimate sea 
where I morph into Mermaid Bride of Christ. 

Museum Of Idols That Cry

Museum Of Idols That Cry
© Surazeus
2026 03 01

Alive in drafty castle of my heart, 
I play both king and dragon of desire 
within the frame of fables liars built 
to credit those who provide them with food 
with miracles no human could perform 
till my white horse drowns in river of change. 

Eager to reclaim my inheritance, 
hidden near the River Gyndes by time, 
I leave behind this land of broken dreams 
which my ancestors invaded with greed, 
but everywhere I go in this world now 
new people live on my ancestral lands. 

When he plucks out my heart with hungry hope 
to find what syncopates our fertile love, 
he breaks its clock of passionate desire 
which cuts taut chord of our mutual song 
so now I cannot articulate well 
trust shattered by aggressive lust to own. 

Indestructible ship of my brave heart, 
shackled to the creaking dock of desire, 
wrenches at ropes of duty to assert 
right to sail pulsing waves of curious faith, 
but blinding passion for treasure regained 
traps my wingless soul in fake fairy tales. 

Bright flame that licks and fawns at mirror mind 
with merciless respect for wordless smiles, 
throws fish of my heart back in the wild sea, 
so I ascend Arctic mountains of hope 
to sell costumes for my outdated selves 
to faceless ghosts of famous movie stars. 

Sinuous orchids in gardens of skulls 
shelter refugees from exploding bombs 
who dream of clear water hiding pure gems, 
though I mail my book of forgotten lore 
to willow witch behind the theater 
whose bodiless owl understands my tricks. 

Yet pitchforked farmer in lush daisied field 
struggles through blackthorn thicket of concern 
to nine-pooled fen where swirling mist conceals 
wounded god who clutches turtle-shell lyre 
while declaring this vale of tears is his 
to build museum of idols that cry. 

I marvel at the brutal nonchalance 
of Mother Nature who creates our souls 
from tangled sunrays of hazardous hope 
with racketing flux of religious faith 
that taunts our fake heroes to prove themselves 
by ransacking libraries of dead gods. 

Brave Daughters Of Amen

Brave Daughters Of Amen
© Surazeus
2026 03 01

She always asks the blind man how to see 
true essence in each object she perceives, 
but he replies that death will set us free 
as sweet relief for every soul who grieves, 
so she measures strict bounds of time and space 
to name true features of the godless face. 

She always asks the mute man how to sing 
insightful lyric of the broken heart, 
but he attempts to fly on crippled wing 
beyond perimeters of the dream chart, 
so she carves runes on trunks of screaming trees 
then brews sweet mead from tears of honeybees. 

When she asks the crippled man how to fly 
above the endless maze of social myths, 
he teaches, good reporters must ask why 
the fairy queen once ruled from monoliths, 
so she films documentaries on ghosts 
of people murdered by the Lord of Hosts. 

When she asks the hungry man how to cook 
food for gods in ziggurat temple hall, 
he records human history in the book 
as word of God who hangs on marble wall, 
so she fries burgers at the small cafe 
near the factory where old widows pray. 

Though she asks the preacher for secret key 
to open door of wisdom locked by fear, 
he snarls, she cannot know the mystery 
because Jesus is the Mind Puppeteer, 
so she plays folk songs in the haunted church 
depicting the fool and his lonely search. 

Though she asks the jester for demon mask 
he wears while mocking dictators and kings, 
he assigns her the most difficult task 
of finding how Daedalus makes god wings, 
so she plays Zenobia on global stage 
to oppose Christian Nationalist rage. 

If she asks Mercury for turtle lyre 
to sing epic tale of heroes and fools, 
he hides how Helios designed the tire 
for his wagon filled with technical tools, 
so she frees humanity from despair 
when she rides the gold hot-air balloon chair. 

If she asks Apollo for his starship 
powered by crystal jewels with star eyes, 
he takes her on his transgalactic trip 
to populate every planet with spies, 
so she arrests the most powerful men 
who abuse brave daughters of Amen. 

Flexible Arc Of Clouds

Flexible Arc Of Clouds
© Surazeus
2026 02 28

The flexible arc of clouds in my heart 
describes the quickened beauty of true love 
when we first meet on fraught terrain of hope, 
then walk together with brave impetus 
toward far horizon of innocent fear 
by breathing completeness of the sky sphere. 

Our footsteps smite bold threshold of our hopes 
when we attempt to teleport through dreams 
without reproach of worship before death 
when bearing fragrant lamp of shrewdest pain 
across expansive arrogance of space 
because our souls were born with glittering face. 

Surprised by subtle facts of swarming words, 
we hide in shadow of the tall white pine 
that whispers ancient secrets of the wind 
alone with sparkle of Adirondack 
where scholars lounge in cabins of cold glass 
to study nature of electric mass. 

Far along path of marbled obstacles 
we transverse shattered beach of tangled truths 
with reckless passion for half-absent waves 
expressing honest shimmer we exchange 
for opaque expanse of the silver flame 
that highlights bitterness of global fame. 

Aroma of buttered toast lures our hearts 
to venture forth from haven of contempt 
and seek contrary treasure turtles tame 
with brute seduction of security 
we feel is unjust to the starving folk 
who seal their spirits in lost storybook. 

Mild satisfaction of escape from death 
diverts bereavement of the nameless friend 
who sells bone fragments of my shattered skull 
to lonely travelers for serpent eggs 
who listen for ringing of telephones 
on distant hill of bombed cathedral stones. 

Inflexible respect for righteous laws 
sparks promise that our empire may yet thrive 
if we should welcome every immigrant 
as equal citizen in troubled times 
who work with earnest loyalty for right 
to garnish wealth from spiral of the light. 

Withdrawal from intensive social games 
to stroll with casual fear in silent woods 
conspires to trick our introspective eyes 
with burning cycle of the solar ghost 
who teaches us to steer the ship of state 
with graceful wisdom through sharp rocks of fate. 

Code Of Our Zeitgeist

Code Of Our Zeitgeist
© Surazeus
2026 02 28

If unexpected laughter breaks the door 
white rabbit of wisdom will ask for more, 
but you request I play the fountain fool, 
so I hide in light to invent the tool 
fallen angels use to heal us with hope 
despite unspooling anguish of the rope. 

Yet someone strange lurks in evening shade, 
so I stand surprised where the book was laid 
three thousand years of people walking past 
till my eighth cousin asks the join the cast, 
so I draw the gun on theater stage 
to shoot the darkness of innocent rage. 

Startled by blast of the lost prairie train, 
I count every drop of the midnight rain 
where gray smoke curls from the haughty cigar 
so I erase my ghost from the speeding car 
before last bottle of liquor is drunk 
at flash of lightning in the stolen trunk. 

Regret defines my journey to the west 
with nothing but photos in the cracked chest 
so I stop in the small country town to ask 
old librarian to sell me her mask, 
but she serves honey-ginger tea instead 
and explains why her sweet daughter is dead. 

Though forty years flash by in sudden twist 
where I play role of the ventriloquist, 
I drive to the bank in Beverly Hills 
with no intention of paying my bills, 
because ancient willow witch knows my name 
since she it was who trapped me with world fame. 

Before the camera with elegant grace 
I play starship captain of outer space 
who saves her crew from demon of the world 
where enormous dragons of time lie curled, 
till Beowulf asks me to marry him 
so I adopt as pet his gold-eyed Grim. 

Beside the fountain of Neptune in Rome 
we talk about where to build our new home, 
while planes sent by kings in gray business suits 
bomb the museum where devils play flutes, 
so I stare at painting of Phoebus Christ 
who tries to program code of our zeitgeist. 

If long-expected marriage of true minds 
occurs in glass cathedral no one finds, 
I may ask Tiresias for a discount 
to purchase freedom with my bank account, 
but someone declares the old king is dead, 
so I eat fried egg on slice of rye bread. 

Dream World Of Success

Dream World Of Success
© Surazeus
2026 02 28

When I hear Sisyphus laugh with delight 
I know rolling stone of justice he hurls 
has smashed clay-foot idol of the Gold King 
whose tower collapses in house of cards 
because fascists always lose game of power 
by driving wise people out of the state. 

When I arrive on Sanzu River shore 
I stop before Bridge of Forgetfulness 
to decide which crossing I want to take 
on my way to the dream world of success 
where people worship idol of my soul 
long after I have vanished in the void. 

When Yama welcomes me with open heart 
to valley of Naraka veiled with mist, 
he gives me jeweled grail from skull of Zeus 
filled with nectar from Vaitarana Stream 
so I drink spirit of the Thirteen Worlds 
which cleanses my body of vain regret. 

When I climb trail cluttered with skulls of kings 
up wind-battered slopes of Mount Kailasha, 
I kneel before crystal Cave of Illusions 
where Shiva meditates on leopard skin 
and plays heart-enchanting tunes on jade flute 
while Parvati dances with divine grace. 

Each atom that composes Frame of Self 
was sparked by first flash of creative love 
that spiraled into galaxies of worlds 
nurtured by wisdom of Solaria 
who weaves neural net of our dreaming brains 
from beams of light that fuel our pulsing cells. 

Each atom in my body at this hour 
was part of various material objects 
through fourteen billion years of evolution, 
soil and rain transmutated by roots of trees 
to fruit we eat while singing by the lake, 
which transform to immortal soul of genes. 

Each atom has cycled through countless bodies 
as material substance that glows with life 
as we evolve generations of souls, 
dirt to grass to wheat or cow we consume, 
then back to dirt in cycle of rebirth, 
so we dance laughing in the evening rain. 

When I climb ruined Ziggurat of Ur 
where Ishtar designed rituals of religion, 
I hear her ancient voice still ringing clear 
as she sang enchanting Dream of Creation 
that still programs how my brain perceives life, 
for she lives in every human on Earth. 

Weird Voice That Hums

Weird Voice That Hums
© Surazeus
2026 02 28

Shocked by weird voice that hums within my brain 
with eerie echoes of uncanny thoughts, 
I open eyes of ancient memories 
with clear intention of terrified hope 
to comprehend strange shapes my mind perceives 
that pulse with intense passion of desire. 

Inspired by vibrant contours of the world 
which undulate with secret waves of faith, 
I mold thick river clay with eager hands 
in vase depicting dance of souls in rain 
that bears juice of ripe fruit from Tree of Life 
we drink to celebrate rebirth of light. 

Attuned by strange vibrations of the ground 
that quaver soft with tremors of concern, 
I translate song of wind in dancing trees 
to frantic prophecy of urgent hope 
based on blurred observation of events 
that swirl around me in the cityscape. 

Focused on frail faces of human beings 
who perform roles in our communal game, 
I dramatize story of conscious life 
in never-ending fairy tale of hope 
that fuels our transformation as we grow 
through intricate ballet of give and take. 

Amused by carefree play of conscious souls 
who stretch their arms to touch eternal light, 
I write tales of our lives in river mud 
recording names of every soul alive 
till they fly away on wings of desire 
as we ascend to cloud world of our dreams. 

Intrigued by complex web of singing stones 
that form foundation of our spinning globe, 
I trace how water flows in streams of light 
to weave vast tangled net of thirsty roots 
that sprout as trees and herbs in glowing fields 
where people gather fruit from heart of time. 

Enthused by divine spirit of our world 
that glows from body of each human brain, 
I breathe ethereal spirit of the sky 
then sing encoded name of every soul 
who blooms in words from silent stones of Earth 
to harmonize in global choir of hope. 

Charmed by weird voice that hums within my brain 
with puzzling concepts of spiritual tropes, 
I speak with darkness of the universe 
who wakes as gleam of light that I am now 
so I glow briefly with pleasure of being 
then flicker out for all eternity. 

We Create Our Fate

We Create Our Fate
© Surazeus
2026 02 26

We create our fate with each choice we make 
by weaving silver threads of cosmic light 
in holy scripture of clandestine creed 
because we map our virtual world of dreams 
by walking toward bright treasure of the heart 
that lures us lost in endless maze of myths. 

We create our fate with each choice we make 
by telling stories from false memories 
we feel are real as kite on twanging string 
that dances in cold mountain wind of hope 
so we can see our place in vale of tears 
where angels struggle trapped in vines of faith. 

We create our fate with each choice we make 
by walking far across waste land of snow 
with shadow of fourth person by our side 
whose face we cannot see in gleaming light 
that fractures mirror mind of our world view 
when we kneel laughing by the pool of eyes. 

We create our fate with each choice we make 
by naming every stranger on the street 
who hurries past in gust of howling wind 
because blind death still waits for every soul 
despite blind faith we place in God above 
whose silence drenches us in mocking rain. 

We create our fate with each choice we make 
by sculpting spirit straight from flash of bombs 
that disassemble economic gains 
contained in stringent formulas of greed 
contrived with capital to fund success 
for building idols of our vampire god. 

We create our fate with each choice we make 
by stumbling drunk on threshold of world change 
through frantic oscillation between poles 
of fierce opposing camps of hostile clowns 
who battle over whose god is more real 
till Earth is soaked in blood of honest faith. 

We create our fate with each choice we make 
by prancing on bright stage of global fame 
to perform role as savior of the world 
who leads brave revolution of the lost 
against cruel oligarchs in towers of gold 
who sail yachts as we slave in factories. 

We create our fate with each choice we make 
by photographing scenes of civil war 
between conflicting ideologies 
that shatter mirror of democracy 
so we assemble puzzle of weird truth 
from Osiris, our new messiah sleuth. 

Swirling In Story

Swirling In Story
© Surazeus
2026 02 26

We are the song of the rain in the trees 
as we pass on with slow dance of the breeze. 
We rise at our birth from dream of the seas 
and float down river of life at our ease. 
We are the cycle of rain in the sky, 
swirling in story of the cosmic eye. 

We are the transient shimmer of the moon 
that appears on Earth and is gone too soon. 
We feel the mountain humming its wild tune 
when the sun grants our heart its secret boon. 
We are the sorrow of grass on the plain, 
swirling in story of suffering pain. 

We are the lope of our goal-driven gait 
as we blaze the road of our chosen fate. 
We pulse with hope for truth to navigate 
landscape of wisdom we investigate. 
We are the laughter of fresh fruit we share, 
swirling in story of religious care. 

We are the flash of stars beyond time 
as we convey our memories in rhyme. 
We wake from sleep with the uncanny chime 
to watch strange play of the prophetic mime. 
We are the growth of sparkling galaxies, 
swirling in story of biblical keys. 

We are the magnet of our iron core 
that weaves our lives in legendary lore. 
We channel faith through the world-leaping door 
that leaves us stranded on the misty moor. 
We are the flame of spirit alchemy, 
swirling in story of brain blasphemy. 

We are the faces blind children have drawn 
while searching for eggs on the castle lawn. 
We join the revolution of the pawn 
who crowns himself new emperor at dawn. 
We are the program of our psychic genes, 
swirling in story of weird dream machines. 

We are the agency of mental code 
that urges us to walk the signless road. 
We colonize swamp of the singing toad 
who teaches us to formulate God Mode. 
We are the window of the longing heart, 
swirling in story of the stellar chart. 

We are brave question of the wordless why 
since our consciousness blanks out when we die. 
We speak about great deeds we want to try 
as the wingless angel who cannot fly. 
We are the riddle lost without a clue, 
swirling in story that is never true. 

Viewless Wings Of Poesy

Viewless Wings Of Poesy
© Surazeus
2026 02 25

Startled awake from drowsy dreams of hope, 
I hear light-winged Dryad of pear trees 
sing of summer with sharp electric ease 
that echoes with melodious ache of love 
in vast suburban maze of cheerful homes 
far from lone highway where my spirit roams. 

Since I returned unseen to world of work, 
because I faded not in forest sheen, 
with bottled liquor of the Hippocrene, 
from long afternoons singing in the park, 
I bring with me strange songs of haunted woods 
that radiate lustrous eyes in neighborhoods. 

Almost grown specter-thin with pale despair, 
I journeyed far across lush evening land 
and found bright glow of passion in brave bond 
through viewless wings of Poesy in air 
I breathe to transform sorrow in clear psalm 
with vibrant tones that teach my heart brave calm. 

Forever now in love with easeful Death, 
immortal Muse who knows my secret name, 
I chant ecstatic tune that dares not tame 
dynamic force of wisdom with brave faith 
expanding conscious scope of my respect 
for clever insight of the Architect. 

Amid the alien corn of my desire 
I open magic casement of my heart 
to find my place on Earth by the star chart, 
yet sing out of tune with the global choir 
since I bear book from fairy land forlorn 
with puzzling map that shows where I was born. 

Uncanny dream song of the nightingale 
lures me to grove of wild fruit trees at dusk 
where I see angel wearing mortal mask 
strum lyre of Mercury with joy, and wail 
heart-aching ode to beauty of this life 
that forges courage from confusing strife. 

Performing roles of emperor and clown, 
young Mercury sings ode of aching hope 
that suffering will teach our hearts to cope 
by breathing faith to wear celestial gown, 
inspired by music of the nightingale 
that reveals secret of the Holy Grail. 

When I hear forlorn bells of fairy land 
unveil mysterious path to my True Self, 
I follow song of that deceiving elf 
who lures me to weird garden of my mind 
where I sing plaintive anthem with clear voice 
that proves we map our fate with every choice. 

Misaligned Features Of Fate

Misaligned Features Of Fate
© Surazeus
2026 02 25

Cruel as the joke of life sometimes might be 
I find strange beauty in weird messiness 
that renders landscape of our mental space 
crooked with misaligned features of fate 
in contrast with delusions of desire 
our brains project on what we wish could be. 

Peter cocks his head and stares at dark clouds, 
then grins as if his argument made sense, 
but shrugs and watches boys on grassy field 
play football with assertive force of pride 
by sprinting with their treasure to the goal 
that replays fight of rival towns for wealth. 

Just as both teams meet at the scrimmage line 
to start another down with standard run, 
someone in black jacket runs on the field 
and shoots at players with shotgun of rage, 
killing the quarterback and several players, 
then everyone in the stands starts to scream. 

Chaos of people running everywhere 
erupts from controlled ritual of observance, 
but Peter drops beer can with gleaming eyes, 
runs straight through the swirling crowd of scared souls 
toward looming shadow of the evil demon 
and tackles the shooter with brutal force. 

Gripping arms of the shooter with tight fists, 
Peter waits till police handcuff his wrists, 
then glares at young boy with scar on his face 
who growls that the quarterback and his pals 
gang-raped his sister and left her for dead, 
so God told him to send their souls to Hell. 

We cannot take the law in our own hands, 
Peter wants to declare with noble voice, 
but police take him away in the van 
down the dark road while lights flash blue and red, 
so he stares stunned at bright blood on the grass 
as journalists with cameras call him hero. 

Our world is structure of atomic sparks 
so actions of our hands, sparked by our will, 
construct or destruct the structures of things 
through force of energy we gesture forth 
when visions of the world inside our brains 
moralize the real world our minds perceive. 

While guarding Gate of Paradise with law 
to attend credentials of characters 
requesting entrance to Garden of Eden, 
Peter studies passport of the young man 
who killed the rapists who abused his sister, 
then stamps approved, allowing him to enter. 

Relate My Weird Tale

Relate My Weird Tale
© Surazeus
2026 02 24

If she spends her days in tears people shed, 
she may lose her eyes to the faceless god 
who looks just like her father of the moon 
so she explains with psychiatrist tone 
that we have a nameless stranger in us 
whose dark feelings are superfluous. 

She holds her breath with courageous attempt 
to prove her companions should be exempt 
from sudden nothingness of wordless death 
who like to sing with oceanic breath 
assertive psalm of holy dizziness 
to the dead on bridge of forgetfulness. 

Because we learned to ambulate upright 
while dancing in the shallow ocean tide, 
she tells me she feels dizzy in her heart 
because our world is spinning off the chart, 
then reminds me that I should change my life 
after she decides she will be my wife. 

She digs in mass grave of dead languages 
to find the expert ghost of loneliness 
while hanging from the building roof of pride 
that she has found where all the angels hide 
by singing with the mocking bird of fate 
who untwists formulas of selfish hate. 

When Death stands near us in the twilight zone, 
she touches truth that radiates from the phone, 
then measures fluctuating flow of time 
that morphs my soul into the Shadow Mime 
so I teach you to chant alchemic spells 
which helps me find my eyes in runic wells. 

We burn dead body of our fallen god 
whose spirit calculates psychotic code 
required by angels of the justice squad 
to track my evolution through each node 
four hundred million years from fish to fool 
who plays humble king in the play at school. 

Since I am hungry for electric fruit, 
I drive white truck while wearing satin suit, 
accelerating through each cosmic frame 
across the multiverse to find my name 
carved with seraphic runes on granite cliffs 
that relate my weird tale with petroglyphs. 

When she traces our sprawling family tree 
to find roots of our brains in physic key, 
she finds first person in our gene bloodline 
is Owl of Athena trapped in the shrine 
where Mercury sings of the Traveler 
who hides that he is son of Lucifer. 

Grandson Of Cassandra

Grandson Of Cassandra
© Surazeus
2026 02 24

Grandson of Cassandra, Sybil of Truth, 
I prophesy events of global change 
in psychic code of clever fairy tales 
that foretell coming of messiah sleuth 
whose principles cover whole social range 
designed to analyze commercial sales. 

In love with Sybil of Cimmeria, 
where dark clouds loom above vast city maze, 
I transcribe riddles she proclaims in trance, 
preserved through temples of Sumeria 
to help us navigate next social phase 
when Fortune gambles our brief lives with chance. 

Exact location of the sacred fane, 
where Roma tends warm hearth of our safe home, 
eludes aggressive stalkers seeking wealth 
because she dwells on bright celestial plane 
where I hide timeless beauty in dream tome 
that fools should read to maintain mental health. 

Cruel Saturn teaches young Mercurius 
strange art of weaving words with tangled threads 
in shining tapestry of world events 
so when I am reborn as Sirius 
I have tools to retrieve from fragile heads 
conceptual tropes that guide wise presidents. 

Alert to sudden shifts in public vibes, 
that flash from sentimental anecdotes 
when Fate highlights souls who stumble on stage 
to play roles that channel spirit of their tribes, 
I encourage people to cast their votes 
for seer who transforms respect from blind rage. 

Trained by mute Cassandra to analyze 
dramatic scenes of interacting souls 
that portray weird zeitgeist of our Hive Mind, 
I organize gangs of poetry spies 
who manipulate people to play roles 
in social games that suffering has streamlined. 

Master of community services 
providing support for war refugees, 
I hide my power of the puppeteer 
with mask that mirrors polished surfaces 
in vain attempt to suppress tragedies 
officials commit for the chanticleer. 

Cassandra, who lies trembling in my arms, 
grandmother Sybil of Cimmerian hills 
who changed history with secret prophecies, 
explains how she lives reborn as my charms, 
then gives me ancient book of vatic spells 
with formulas that bind democracies. 

Silence Of Fake Words

Silence Of Fake Words
© Surazeus
2026 02 23

Down here in dirty cavern of my heart, 
I slouch with passive passion for this life, 
half-awake beneath surface of grim fear, 
wondering if could crawl back up from Hell 
so I can jump off high cliff of despair 
and float on wings of Icarus nowhere. 

Unseen in shadow of the faceless god 
who stands as grand idol above the crowd, 
I mumble spells that no one ever hears 
through troubling hum of my interior self 
that vanishes in silence of fake words 
when you listen close to understand fear. 

Shocked at moment of terrible insight 
by self-exploration of wordless despair, 
I wear mask of self-awareness to hide 
demonic storm of hate that writhes with lust 
in pulsing passion of my hungry heart 
when I fail to analyze psychic noise. 

Startled by clanging bells of dire alarms 
that rattle fire-station walls with woke jokes, 
I scream at portraits of ghosts on the wall 
who threaten to devour my apple heart, 
so I lie on my back on marble floor 
to let gallery viewers trample me. 

Crawling drunk on country dirt-road of faith, 
I tremble paralyzed by divine light 
when God approaches in the starless night 
as glaring headlights of the semitruck 
that crushes my perspective into dust 
though I photograph piston-engine guts. 

Head bowed in contemplation of regret 
from vain attempt to untwist moral laws 
with blunt authority of bitter gods, 
I empower embrace of naked Death 
in frantic avoidance of mental angst 
that beams image of my soul in the mirror. 

Haughty with genius of performance tricks, 
I fall in love with image of my Self 
which I invent from psychotic remains 
of famous word wizards who sang love spells 
which lures attention from inner turmoil 
concealed by surface mask of conscious breath. 

Blind shadow of all my ancestors lurks 
in hollow shimmer of my doorless room 
so I displace my god-bright consciousness 
in flashing television screen of dreams 
that urges me to leap in toxic pool 
with gritty influx of irreverent faith. 

Tears Of Happy Rain

Tears Of Happy Rain
© Surazeus
2026 02 23

On hands and knees of brave alacrity, 
bruised by bitter faith in the Promised Land, 
Ellen crawls across muddy field of fear 
with fierce indifference of the thunderstorm 
that drenches her in tears of happy rain 
which seeks to cleanse her heart of futile pain. 

Ellen breathes ethereal light of respect 
with passion to inflate cordial concern, 
then stumbles in sparse grove of apple trees 
to coil elastic sinews of her soul 
wound tight in sheltering canopy of faith 
by huddling against cold wind of despair. 

Eyes blinking with blurred insight of her watch 
that never measures slow passage of change, 
Ellen imagines she dials time backward 
to undrench field of mud in silver rain 
far enough that she sees the stone in time 
to swerve the car aside before the crash. 

Unbreak the wheel of Helios with foresight, 
Ellen tells herself with wry grin of angst 
while peering through flashing curtains of rain 
to spot demonic monsters with sharp teeth 
before they attack and rip out her heart 
that pounds with cautious readiness to flee. 

Ellen sighs as she peers through silver sheen 
to assess situation with the car 
that lies battered and twisted on its side, 
and notes right front wheel brokely spinning slow 
with grim accusatory glare of fate, 
then ponders how to right the vehicle. 

Like the wounded horse fallen on its side 
from breaking its leg against unseen rock, 
dim headlights of the car stare in her eyes 
with forlorn anguish of confusing pain 
that stabs her heart with sudden flush of guilt, 
so she aches to comfort crashed car with care. 

Bemused that she imagines non-souled car, 
constructed from metal, rubber, and wood, 
with piston engine powered by gasoline, 
must feel pain and fear in its suffering, 
Ellen chuckles this empathy persists 
against all rational analysis. 

Arms and legs bruised from wrenching accident, 
Ellen eats several apples from the tree 
as gold sunrays glitter after the storm, 
then limps slowly back to overturned car 
to caress its dented hood with compassion, 
but cries at the death of her favorite horse. 

True Nature Of Christ

True Nature Of Christ
© Surazeus
2026 02 22

Randomly wandering off somewhere else, 
I sit by the river of clarity 
and listen to the scream of butterflies 
that catalogue how incompetent kings 
cause their civilizations to collapse 
by crushing critical experiments. 

While people in the building on the hill 
argue about the true nature of Christ, 
whether God created him from the stone 
or whether he is eternal as the wind, 
I hum harmonious catalyst of faith 
that highlights the indifference of Nature. 

I ponder concept of the Holy Ghost 
who sparks gasoline of electric hope 
without dynamic formulas for fate 
we sell each other in the marketplace 
through graphical interface of dire thoughts 
impressive with index of verbal bombs. 

Reordered medium of mutual creeds 
might maximize our maternal instincts 
contrived by magic minister of reason 
who sells salvation to synthetic brides 
at standardized reunion of glass schools 
secure with sediment of salaries. 

Rude receiver of messages from God 
presents tremendous terms of unity 
while on vacation to the Promised Land 
where children volunteer to feed the poor 
who celebrate grand victory of their team 
at fight for wisdom on the waterfront. 

Untitled prince who roams the wilderness 
stops at each house in the shadowy woods 
to praise accomplishments of the mad clown 
who treasures quality of polished bowls 
which he presents at every seminar 
as specialized game of socialist code. 

Despite regression of the psychic mode, 
Remus falls asleep in algebra class 
though Lakshmi taps him on the shoulder blade 
before the evening sun begins to fade 
erasing every church from dream of time 
so people walk with nothing in their hands. 

As passive character of my own tale, 
I confront some small problem in my life, 
meditating on strange complexity 
inherent in our worship of the light, 
but take no action that might change the world, 
then wander somewhere else I never am. 

Emptiness Of The Mind

Emptiness Of The Mind
© Surazeus
2026 02 22

Because I seek emptiness of the mind, 
erasing special features from my face 
so I become the universal soul, 
I leave my name as mask on broken ground 
with nonchalant indifference of true faith 
to empathize with every soul on Earth. 

Carmentis carves letters as keys for tones 
that symbolize the sounds of words we speak, 
transforming letters that Cadmus designed 
to better match speech her tribesmen express, 
then sings the heart-charming spell she composed 
while Mercurius strums strings of his lyre. 

Bearing bright-eyed son of Mercurius, 
Carmentis holds new-born child in her arms 
and beams with joy as he suckles fresh milk, 
then hums charming melody with soft voice 
while she ponders what name of noble sense 
she will choose to address him with respect. 

Leaning against marble statue of Pallas, 
that stands with spear and cape in temple hall 
on hill of Pallantium in Arcadia, 
Mercurius adjusts strings of his lyre 
while his curious son crawls on his lap 
and giggles when he plucks taut strings of time. 

Running with his pet wolf in rugged hills, 
Evander finds two men in apple grove 
grasp arms of young woman with cruel intent 
while their leader attempts to kiss her mouth, 
so he drives them away with magic wand, 
then cleans her face and gives her juice to drink. 

While lounging with Clytia beside the pool, 
Evander vows to marry her with love, 
but Tantalus bursts into temple hall 
and shouts with rage that Clytia is his wife, 
so Evander flees far across the sea, 
and sails till he lands on shore of Latium. 

Exhausted from his trip across the sea, 
Evander crawls to temple in dark woods 
where gold-haired Latina offers him juice, 
spiced apple cider that revives his heart, 
so he brings firewood and water in jars, 
gazing with love as she bakes loaves of bread. 

Bearing bright-eyed daughter of Evander, 
Latina teaches her to analyze 
social events with code of prophecy, 
so Roma presides at the temple hearth 
while strumming dream lyre of Mercurius 
whose spirit wakes in sparkle of her eyes. 

Games Of Word Power

Games Of Word Power
© Surazeus
2026 02 22

I played my part in the national tale 
though no one noticed my performance art, 
so who will be surprised when it falls apart 
because I finally caught the great white whale 
and saved America from tyranny 
by redirecting global symphony. 

When I transform into tall tree of light 
and float as mist above tree-shrouded hills 
so my soul shimmers clear in mountain rills, 
I channel soul of Star God through dream flight 
by singing in harmony with the stream 
where we unite and work as loyal team. 

Sunlight gleams on lake of demonic force 
while I write name of every famous mind 
who played on stage of hope that fate designed 
in quest to seek psychological source 
from which springs energy of social change 
that drives some to express whole mental range. 

Untwisting threads of fortune tangled tight, 
from which no human spirit can escape, 
I wear leather Dracula boots and cape 
while recording tales of the human plight 
dramatized as gods on the global stage, 
who play characters on the unread page. 

Though Fame never cast her eyes on my face, 
illuminating both weakness and strength 
that calculate with fractured scenes coiled length 
expanding my conscious sense of dream space, 
I celebrate success of role I played 
with solemn eloquence that needs no grade. 

Kwan Yin provides conceptual scope of health, 
preserved in luscious peach of timeless spark 
as bright atomic ray from divine quark, 
which fuels ascension of my soul through stealth 
from ever-changing sphere of molecules 
to wake as mortal god from chemicals. 

Intense with sudden insight of mute rain, 
I gaze out window of my roadless home 
at wagon trains that pass the crumbling dome 
to colonize farms on the river plain 
far from political games of state power 
so children can find truth in the star flower. 

Frustrated by fake role of loyal fool 
both church and state demanded I should play, 
I rewrite brain program script to portray 
creative architect who wields word tool 
to conjure virtual model of the Earth 
designed with progressive code of soul birth. 

Though you will never know the role I played 
as minor function in global machine, 
you may see ghosts glow on the silver screen 
that perform tale of Savior and Mermaid 
till we all go home when the play is done 
since Death cares not about who lost or won. 

Infinite Location Of Faith

Infinite Location Of Faith
© Surazeus
2026 02 22

Trivial circle of heart-breaking despair 
precludes expressive vision beyond death 
except repetitive gestures of hope 
trapped by mechanical actions of hands 
grasping slippery curve of the universe 
by looping back to cave of helplessness. 

Foundational assumptions about life 
on which I ramble with unconscious trust 
crack at brutal rays of honest despair 
and crumble into illusory sand 
so all I thought was true is incorrect, 
delusions that vanish at frantic grasps. 

Disoriented by delusions of false hope, 
I stumble through concept of the abyss, 
lost in dizzy haze of the endless maze, 
stuck at infinite location of faith 
unlocated in vast reality 
till I become the essence of nowhere. 

All meaning my mind invented from hope 
dissipates with mist in glare of the sun 
so I ache as I strive to comprehend 
phenomenon inherent in each thing 
that pulses with assumptions I devised 
though I mumble words to express my truth. 

Manipulated by petty desires 
that urge my actions to acquire respect, 
I struggle trapped in web of predilections, 
blinded by illusions my brain invents, 
till I stand naked in abysmal stasis, 
unknowing in profundity of why. 

Embraced by desire to live beyond death, 
my worn-out heart flutters its wounded wings 
when ultimate illusion of my truth, 
which I thought was eternal as high mountains, 
dissolves in blustery wind of wild waves 
that crush my words with cold indifference. 

Though I fancied myself sprite of free will, 
asserting my vision with honest words, 
I find my body of chemical fluids 
is no ethereal angel of pure light, 
but lust-automated reflex machine 
programmed by ancestral dreams of survival. 

With honest assessment of fallen angels, 
I know my self is charade of desire, 
mental computer of composite creeds 
designed to process experience of hope, 
so I embrace your body with my heart 
and we make love that banishes despair. 

One Of The Winged Seraphs

One Of The Winged Seraphs
© Surazeus
2026 02 21

When he stumbles drunk in the Promised Land, 
waving tattered book of weird fairy tales 
in his hand, Richard shouts at Tree of Life 
that he is in love with Annabel Lee 
because he is one of the winged seraphs 
who escaped Heaven with arrogant wings. 

Smearing blood of rainbows with joyful rage, 
while shouting insults at proud Gabriel, 
Richard paints Tarzan on cold marble wall 
to offend bright angels who rule the skies, 
but they smile at antics of the wild child 
who falls asleep by mushroom of the toad. 

Irreverent voice of the subjective clown, 
that withers holy daffodils of faith, 
bulges from his chest with assertive pride 
to tear constraints of strict morality 
with alligator teeth of jealousy, 
rejecting formal patterns of concern. 

Perceived as intellectual clown of faith, 
who maintains illusion of divine truth, 
Richard tears pages out of holy books 
to rearrange scenes of dramatic scope 
where he plays role of the very clean tramp 
who smashes god idols with steel guitars. 

Grave pursuit of obliteration proves 
crystal-clear melodies of chiming suites 
disarrange mental sense of ordered time 
through dynamic physics of fractured words 
which spool consistent concepts of regret 
since every moment binds eternity. 

Rehearsed narratives honest people code 
counterbalance sober insight with rage 
of circumscribed progress relapsing straight 
through puzzle of prepared absurdity 
when Richard abandons his youthful game 
for glossier assignments trashing truth. 

Continuous rejection by Perun, 
who catches lightning bolts with oaken wand, 
convinces Richard to trap ocean ghosts 
with undeveloped spirals spinning lies 
by weaving repertoire of holy clowns 
with self-invention through misquoted tricks. 

Reborn as television god of lies, 
who builds river boats from angelic bones, 
Richard attempts to escape from bland Hell, 
that he created with attentive care, 
by fighting against predetermined fate 
that his ancestors programmed in his brain. 

Hour Of False Grace

Hour Of False Grace
© Surazeus
2026 02 21

Nine times around the lake of sparkling eyes 
lithe Sylphus races clockwork orange of fate 
to dance with crystal wings of butterflies 
in frantic ritual to expel blind hate 
from seething body of the human race 
who sell their freedom for hour of false grace. 

Contraptions of desire collapse in shards 
that tighten roots of misdirected hope 
slammed with fluorescent keys of bitter cards 
designed to fracture wands fools steal to cope 
with time-contracted breath of confidence 
unspooling spiteful jokes of innocence. 

Determined to run time back home from fear 
by sprinting nowhere high on fragile thoughts, 
sad Sylphus questions far-flung words too near 
through frantic alibi of blind robots, 
yet maps departure to the unknown space 
with brave defiance of the blazing face. 

Drawn from bright shadows of the noon eclipse 
by snarling angels chained to temple poles, 
sly Sylphus swims vast oceans on slow trips 
against assertive tides of social goals 
contrived as law by tyrant on the hill 
who sneers at our assertion of free will. 

Though sweet celestial dreams of paradise 
rise from his heart and disappear at dawn, 
proud Sylphus brews from apricots and spice 
poisonous wine with brains of demon spawn 
who slither from spiraled telephone lines 
with stiff distrust of sudden porcupines. 

Supine airlines of loyal globalists 
connect disparate states of mental being 
with burning crosses doused by atheists 
who shake honest rattles of suffering 
when we escape collapse of empire clans 
who sell mansions and live in hopeless vans. 

Trapped by grim loneliness of broken words, 
bold Sylphus dares communicate with spells 
weird secrets of his heart to happy birds 
who guide his journey to find healing wells 
so he sees life with luminosity 
that radiates his brain with jocosity. 

You see kind Sylphus everywhere you go 
in maze of stores along cosmetic roads, 
disguised as humble workers for the show 
who play with brave dynamics of the toad 
in safe enclosures through equality, 
reserved for world reign of our deity. 

Turtle With Swan Wings

Turtle With Swan Wings
© Surazeus
2026 02 21

Strange as it seems to the alphabet god, 
I wade in bright lake of arrogant peace 
to catch demonic energy of fear 
and roast large fish in domed temple of truth, 
then sing with crickets in the twilight hour 
when Death catches the tyrant in the tower. 

Silver rain splashing on window of time 
reveals strange beauty of this world I love, 
refracting faces of strangers who live 
in doorless houses of my neighborhood, 
so I stand on stone bridge of timeless faith 
and listen to song of the star-eyed wraith. 

When people gather in the city park 
for the annual poetry festival, 
I morph into the turtle with swan wings 
to fly across the prairie of respect 
and walk in valley of the singing skull 
to hear sweet spell only rivers can sing. 

Though my heart is broken by civil wars 
that displace families from ancestral homes, 
the way Minerva smiles at me and laughs 
while we are strolling on the river shore 
heals secret wounds with charm of simple joy 
because despair flows away to the sea. 

Rivers have flowed from mountains to the seas 
four billion years of shining crystal eyes, 
and water will keep cycling through our hearts 
another billion years of spinning hope, 
so I kneel reverently in glowing grass 
and drink clear liquid in cupped hands of love. 

I pray to totems of Bacchus and Thor 
who laugh with joy at calm absurdity 
as we dance cheerful with anxiety 
to celebrate savage science of truth 
in war against the psychopathic god 
who blusters with obsessive angst at Death. 

Imperial pride of superior grace 
glares fiercely from cracked mirror of despair 
that drives brave Vikings mad in frantic fear 
when glass cathedrals crack from greedy prayers 
which leaves their treasured creeds exposed to rain 
washing pious fantasies to the sea. 

Stuck on the carousel of history 
that hurls my horse of courage into war, 
I race with passion past my destiny 
by swerving willfully from violent hate, 
and choose to welcome refugees of fate 
to build communal paradise of farms. 

Puzzle Of My Soul

Puzzle Of My Soul
© Surazeus
2026 02 21

Blithely assertive with ardent affection, 
I glow with quantum authenticity 
by stretching bandwidth of my psychic wings 
to soar in cloud of human-vibrant dreams 
that pulse with cosmic energy of hope 
as I assemble puzzle of my soul. 

Shocked by awesome beauty of dreamless stars, 
I wander nowhere in cement street maze 
with vague purpose of clandestine concern 
to find the angel I saw fall from Heaven 
so she can tell me secrets of the heart 
for wearing masks of heroes without care. 

Desperately aloof with fierce apathy, 
I flip insouciance with negligent plan 
to change world system of capital games 
so profit favors those who work the hardest 
though parasites drink from my bleeding heart 
with false integrity of patriots. 

Certified prophet of dangerous programs, 
designed to misdirect fraught deficits 
against dependence of spiritual sprites, 
I smear generic blood of history 
on forensic walls of bland galleries 
where bankers buy hazardous truths from artists. 

Optical riddles through mechanic thoughts 
monitor mysterious nurses of faith 
whose brave offensive hands heal mutant fools 
reborn as normal citizens of time 
who orchestrate routines of soul survival 
based on unlicensed puzzle of my soul. 

Nominal model of fashionable pride 
administers marginal show of beauty 
with lavender leadership of contempt 
pursuant to progressive relevance 
dispersed by constant crowd of vigilance 
unqualified to transmit tragedy. 

Vanity played by humble volunteers 
through magnitude of mortal membership 
should maximize my viability 
for martial legacy of microwaves 
modified by monuments of contrition 
for mutual misery of forgotten crimes. 

Nitrogen trust in organized resistance 
explodes with prejudice of false redemption, 
yet stoic protocols through synthesis 
supplement technical bias of trivia 
upgrading versatile skills by osmosis 
though I stare blind through verbal telescopes. 

Frail Rose Of Beauty

Frail Rose Of Beauty
© Surazeus
2026 02 20

Unbidden by grim councils of desire, 
our uncorrupted rose of beauty blooms 
beneath the starry dome of eerie hope 
with fragile petals of our mortal hearts 
that breathe strange sweetness of celestial love 
in anguished hush of timeless twilight glow. 

Sweet rose of beauty blooming from my heart 
demands no vote from politics or creeds, 
nor bends its head to banners in the square 
where people march with mindless fear of death, 
since sunlight is the only law it heeds 
and air is divine gospel of its breath. 

Pure rose of beauty thrives within stone walls 
where truth protects it from the strife of power, 
safe from brazen trumpets that bruise the sky 
when flaring colors blind the loyal eye 
and gilded emblems fool the heart to lie 
in obedience to grand lord in the tower. 

Shackled by demands from profiteers 
to conjure illusions of wealth from death, 
frail rose of beauty learns the cunning tongue 
to sing of glory forged from iron flame, 
so she strums lyre by ideologues restrung, 
shouting loud praise that masks clandestine aims. 

No wise artist could transcend dire disgrace 
when grace of their chisel is pressed to carve 
brave brow of the tyrant in marble mask, 
nor bold brush of the painter schooled to glam 
scenes of noble deeds that never occur 
which trick the multitudes to bow with awe. 

Firm hand of the sculptor, that once released 
ideal soul of the hero from bright stone, 
and trembled at bright gleam of mortal sorrow 
with passion to depict beauty of man, 
now labors in directed trance of fear 
where truth is trimmed from sacred myths of faith. 

Yet deep within our secret-breathing grove, 
where refugees from war seek healing peace, 
the nightingale, unbriefed by state or throne, 
expresses holy hymn of sacred love 
that proves respect for all forever blooms 
in bold cadence no doctrine could intone. 

For bright in every human in this world 
our conscious soul, from pageantry set free, 
drinks beauty of community we share 
from stream of truth the Earth provides for all, 
not by harsh trumpet of conformity, 
but in choir that blends all voices in tune. 

Of The Television Screen

Of The Television Screen
© Surazeus
2026 02 20

I wake up in the television screen, 
brain blooming billions of bland human beings 
who brilliantly berate with purple praise 
enormous idol of their blank-faced god 
who grins with bitter angst of butterflies 
at soft explosions of conceptual thoughts. 

I break up in the television screen 
as founding member of the corporate cohort 
concerned with clank of critical contempt 
at clash of Titans on the internet 
who fight the holy war of sonic youth 
to break electric chains of credit cards. 

I crack out from the television screen 
to swallow army tanks of policies 
based on intrinsic attributes of faith 
when brave professors of untamed desire 
contemplate process of soul suicide 
in context of imminent plans to laugh. 

I squirm out of the television screen 
with fractured shards of mirrors on my face, 
and lie down prone by grave of every child, 
killed by commercial programs of the state, 
to play dead with glass mask of Jupiter 
that glamours with precarious self-regard. 

I fall out of the television screen 
and tumble laughing on the White House lawn 
since tattered wings of Icarus are mine 
despite their enigmatic thoughts of love 
when I cross hands across my wounded chest 
that helps me fly in selfish grave of hope. 

I writhe inside the television screen 
with ardent wisdom of the orphanage, 
smeared with internalized oblivion, 
and march along assembly line of fate 
to robot bondage in car factories, 
trapped in the desperate dead-end life of hope. 

I curl around the television screen 
with brave malignancy of banking kings 
who sing anthems with rhetorical fluff 
contrived from inaccessible respect 
through generous validation of the sad 
regardless of our search for broken minds. 

I blast off from the television screen 
on wingless agency of hopeless fear 
embedded inside obvious clock of trust 
if we transcend confining psychic space 
with brutal innocence of blind Narcissus 
who eats the caged bird when it dares to sing. 

Gods After Bodies Die

Gods After Bodies Die
© Surazeus
2026 02 19

Immortalized by stories humans tell, 
mortals become gods after bodies die, 
so we draw memories from our mental well 
to conjure heroes from our global eye 
whose deeds create good benefiting all 
as moral guide contained in psychic key. 

Prometheus steals brand of fire from Zeus 
and teaches tribe of humans how to cook, 
so we design machines that mass-produce 
cars and computers of the Holy Book, 
then fly in rocket ships to Outer Space 
to find our Earth is giant spinning rock. 

Grim Jupiter assembles justice squad 
who forge brass scepters with sharp diamond spears 
to fight oppressive Titans, then plays God 
who drives fast race car with time-machine gears 
in tandem with celestial flashing node 
that proves our souls are atoms forged by stars. 

Apollo strums electric brain guitar 
to howl weird hymn of love in microphone 
as global rock god who rules Zathamar 
with Sisyphus who drums the rolling stone 
in frantic revolution of the door 
expanding our perception of this plane. 

Some humans play grand role of holy ghost 
whose play embodies spirit of their tribe 
entranced by solemn antics of their host 
who channels singing stars with social vibe 
so their face becomes symbol of the best 
pretenders wear as mask with priestly robe. 

Queen Ishtar rules on ziggurat of truth 
and sends her daughters to evangelize 
conceptual scriptures of messiah sleuth 
which found religions on aesthetic lies 
designed to trap our minds in mindless faith 
till rogue clowns deconstruct cathedral shows. 

Though millions worship Jesus Christ as God 
that mortal man, who nurtured followers, 
and rescued slaves from Hell with angel squad, 
died after he defeated puppeteers, 
but fathered dynasties of castle kings 
who ruled two thousand years with jeweled crowns. 

Our Pantheon of humans in god form 
is crowded now with heroes of the past 
whose noble deeds are scattered by the storm 
so theater of worship has huge cast 
of aspiring stars who all left the farm 
to play in movies on the hilly coast. 

I worship every god who ever lived 
for they are paragons of human souls 
whose great deeds cause our paradigm to shift 
so everybody seeks to play god role 
in our golden age of angelic souls 
singing together in our global choir. 

Bright Voice Of Tellus

Bright Voice Of Tellus
© Surazeus
2026 02 19

I hear bright voice of Tellus in my heart 
when Mother Earth sings vision of her world 
through wind and water of our swirling globe 
so I breathe deep clear spirit of her mind 
to translate wordless joy of fertile life 
with spells that hint at glory of her power. 

Each Mother Goddess in cultural myths 
embodies soul of one special mortal woman 
who lived so large in drama of her tribe 
that their proud bards, inspired by her grand deeds, 
deified her name with worshipful verse 
that preserves her soul so she transcends death. 

All gods and goddesses of ancient tales 
record grand lives of mortal men and women 
whose dramatic acts provide social frame 
for how we view our human characters 
when we explore fierce psychic energies 
that urge our own performance in this life. 

Each conscious human breathing air of Earth 
finds deep in tangled memories of hope 
moral values their ancestors programmed 
through intense actions to survive each day 
which we assemble in puzzle of truth 
to imitate life of deified parents. 

Each god or goddess humans choose to worship 
embodies way of life providing laws 
that guide how we respond to situations 
when we wear mask of our true deity 
which molds our secret soul in divine form 
till we break free and become our True Self. 

Combining features of Jesus, Apollo, 
Odin, and Orpheus in one weird mask, 
polished with sheen of Zeus and Lucifer, 
I create myself as Surazeus 
Astarius Jesuvius Gothinus, 
transformed from mortal man to character. 

So when this mortal body I am dies, 
and crumbles into soil for apple seeds, 
and conscious soul of my brain dissipates 
to nothing more than flashing molecules, 
Spirit of Surazeus will remain 
as concept preserved in spells I compose. 

Animated by First Mother of Mankind, 
that one woman who gave birth to us all, 
I live this temporary life of faith 
to sing bright voice of Tellus in my heart, 
recording memories my ancestors lived, 
then I will vanish in the silent wind. 

Fragile Flame Of Dreams

Fragile Flame Of Dreams
© Surazeus
2026 02 18

Guided safely by fragile flame of dreams, 
I wander blithely endless maze of myths, 
stopping to chat with idols of dead gods 
as I enquire about their social lives 
when we share drinks and contemplate the world, 
then I continue on my merry way. 

Awake from play in fragile flame of dreams, 
I walk pathway along the grassy hill 
where children of the stars play hide and seek 
then run inside the seven-gabled house 
to eat chocolate cake and watch fun cartoons 
while children in distant lands flee from bombs. 

Surprised by light from fragile flame of dreams, 
I gaze at tattered Wings of Icarus 
mounted within glass case near Crown of Thorns 
inside Museum of the Fallen God, 
but the guard dressed in clean uniform glares 
when I attempt to sneak a photograph. 

Amused by glow from fragile flame of dreams, 
I ask Apollo if he understands 
true nature of the graceful laurel tree, 
but he just strums guitar with angry glare 
and howls with hippie voice of psychic angst 
against the empire war-machine of fear. 

Confused by flash from fragile flame of dreams, 
I ask Beethoven how to play the lyre 
with stark electric anguish of true love 
for noble-hearted Brunhild with star eyes 
who hurls sharp spear of generosity 
at King Midas to save humanity. 

Inspired by hum from fragile flame of dreams, 
I chant, "Hail to the Jewel in the Lotus," 
while floating high on television tube 
that beams my body through the multiverse, 
incarnate as Avalokitesvara 
with hundred billion eyes of god-star brains. 

Reborn through egg in fragile flame of dreams, 
I retrieve Apple of Eris with hope 
of romance with wise goddess of the Earth, 
then stand before Saraswati, Kwan Yin, 
and Athena, contemplating which queen 
to offer rich fruit of my loyal heart. 

Destroyed by blast from fragile flame of dreams, 
I kneel in grand cathedral bombed to ruin, 
and grasp at shattered fragments of world view 
assembled by ancient philosophers, 
then design new Temple of Global Truth 
that merges all religions in one faith. 

Justice Rallies Us

Justice Rallies Us
© Surazeus
2026 02 18

I haunt this world as one already dead 
and thus transcend contemporary strife 
with visions of global peace in my head 
as ideal state of equal-justice life, 
because greedy men terrified of death 
oppress the rest of us by stealing breath. 

Attentive to mute anguish of the folk 
who hide their faces behind masks of pride, 
I program mental world view of the woke 
that guides progress of my confident stride 
when I unite with comrades of our land 
to counter theft by the capitalist hand. 

With star-spangled banner of Liberty 
we join brave effort to oppose cruel thugs 
who kidnap children of democracy, 
and rescue them with encouraging hugs, 
because together we learn how to cope 
when Justice rallies us with reborn hope. 

Our old world view lies shattered on the ground, 
smashed by fierce gang of wealthy oligarchs, 
so we assemble on republic mound 
in world coalition against monarchs 
and build from ruins of America 
United Nations of Zarathia. 

I haunt this world as one barely alive 
after harsh assault by kings in disguise, 
yet we join forces of truth to survive 
against exploiters who patrol the skies 
in planes that shoot bombs to destroy our homes 
so we wander where the blind prophet roams. 

We help Sisyphus with his rolling stone 
to smash gold idol of the clay-foot king 
who seems to tower over all alone 
but will crumble when brave Valkyries sing, 
so restoring our tax money he stole 
to fund free healthcare is our noble goal. 

With wings of Icarus I weave from faith 
I soar above our global city maze 
with message of success from the God Wraith 
whose love pilots our growth to the next phase 
as leader who nurtures our innates skills 
when we celebrate truth in flowered hills. 

We haunt our world with knowledge we will die 
yet strive to build lush paradise for all 
who quest for truth by analyzing why, 
then feast and sing in world-religion hall 
that binds our hearts and minds with code of truth 
composed by wisdom of messiah sleuth. 

Evening Star Of Choice

Evening Star Of Choice
© Surazeus
2026 02 17

If I feel the Evening Star through thick fog 
that half-veils tidal flats of kelp on rocks, 
though my eyes cannot perceive its sharp light, 
I may breathe time-swirled element of faith 
that jagged pool of invisible light 
may cleanse my wounded heart with honesty. 

Lost in dark fog of brutal watershine, 
far from safe cave of innocent respect, 
I transform into heron in low tide 
with eager hope to soar on graceful wings 
above contentious crowds of worshippers 
who seek to grasp bright calcium flame of truth. 

Scattered feathers from fallen angels twitch 
in hungry sand of fractured polity, 
oblique with evasive context of rage 
misleading sharp-eyed devils who require 
typographic planes of opaque dispute 
drawn from excessive expertise of fear. 

Imprinted layers of conceptual fate, 
still wrapped in umber clarity of trust, 
define unended journeys beyond fear 
condensed as statues guarding halls of lies 
where whispered secrets of gauzed confidence 
conceal our souls in figurines of glass. 

Though startling sequence of dream formulas 
pluck private strings of cordial scarcity, 
hall mirror faces mirror of my brain 
with law of splendid light to balance pain 
against collapsing telescope of fate 
through which I see the Evening Star of Choice. 

Amazed by radiance of the unseen house, 
preserving shocked glare of the puppeteer, 
I light ten thousand candles of my heart 
to highlight origin of tangled words 
that multiply our bodies from desire 
which thrive sparked on infinity effect. 

Electric construct of my mental Self, 
style modeled on profile of Orpheus 
refined by quantum energy of love, 
provides framework for weird ontology 
I program from puzzle of spectral souls 
which animates my fragile flame of dreams. 

Syntax of artificial chronicles, 
commissioned from my heart by primal gods, 
converts my thoughts to tangled threads of words 
which angels weave in global tapestries 
presenting unreal shadows of our brains 
we play as riddles in Plutonian homes. 

Ripe Apple Of The Sun

Ripe Apple Of The Sun
© Surazeus
2026 02 17

If I should catch ripe apple of the sun 
before it falls in thick Slough of Despond 
I may taste bitter sweetness of true love 
which is why the revolution is fought 
with passion for aspiring right to stand 
with fluted robe of hope on modern shores. 

We ride wave of this golden age with class, 
exquisite in white marble drapery 
that gleams with brutal wisdom of starlight 
in gleaming waters of the fountain pool 
where statues of our ancestors remain 
long after their souls program our genes. 

While change remains eternal principle 
that guides our progress from classical times, 
we gaze with rapture at excessive shapes 
contained in watery medium of our minds 
reflecting glimmer of grief in our eyes 
we cherish with consensual fortitude. 

Alive in warm flesh of young nameless boy, 
Apollo glides in cluttered streets of Rome 
with flute he plays for national orchestras 
on transparent stage of undevoured time 
to note accentual differences of rhyme 
we share as witness of treacherous death. 

Yet unread pages of the ancient book 
still mirror characters with noble traits 
who never walk this world in mortal flesh 
for they are ideals we aspire to play, 
stuck in impossible scenarios 
that always end in tragic loss of faith. 

Uncommon radiance of her special face 
gleams clear with incandescent honesty 
through immaterial passion to retrieve 
efficient confidence from tombs of fate, 
defined by absence of our mortal souls 
embodied by glass idols of respect. 

Endurance through aesthetic thoughtfulness 
reveals how numb bereavement frames our days 
with courage to survive contingencies 
no one but scarred survivors will expect 
though trapped in consolations of contempt 
that drown our hearts in cold indifferences. 

Assertive discipline of summoned ghosts 
constrains excessive passion to transcend 
bland credence of divisive energies 
that teach us how to understand our pain 
despite attempts to bank fateful accounts 
with apples we store in our wounded hearts.