Brave Tritonian Faith

Brave Tritonian Faith
© Surazeus
2026 03 13

Long since grown from child of the wandering sea, 
where I once ventured vast unshadowed main, 
I lounge with nonchalance of purpled wings 
on wave-smooth stone to sun my streaming hair 
and study fragments from my ship of pearl 
that shimmers gold with lustrous coil of faith. 

From sunless crypt of aching solitude 
my father Triton wanders in wild gust 
of laughing wind, that gallops from stark peaks 
of jagged mountains, to kneel on cold sand 
and blow wild tune in chambered nautilus 
that rings forlorn on desolate beach of faith. 

Awake with howl of my unresting sea, 
that slithers silver waves around my feet, 
I stretch frail frame of flesh with ache of hope 
that broad sky-dancing wings of fortitude 
may sprout from beating passion of my heart, 
that fills my heart with brave Tritonian faith. 

Though Triton, ancient withered ocean god 
who sired my soul from fertile womb of light, 
lies sprawled on glistening sand of arrogance, 
unsouled by ruthless blast of grinding time, 
I feel spark of his ocean spirit gleam 
with weird immortal energy of faith. 

When I kneel and weep by round pool of light 
that glitters framed by empty shells of truth, 
I see face of my father Triton glow 
with animated urge of my own heart 
as if I wear mask of his bearded face, 
for I am reborn replicant of faith. 

Fair phantom of my pulsing heart appears 
through emanation of courageous fear 
with fierce intention to investigate 
source of power that compels my quest 
to transcend bounds of self-enclosing name 
and claim commission to preach deeds of faith. 

Now that my father Triton vanishes 
from dream time of my fate-perceptive eyes, 
I measure segments of transforming change 
that gears strict increments in scale of growth 
so dawn light swells from nothing of my heart 
to shape this world of forms from wordless faith. 

Inspired by scripture of footprints on sand, 
which I compose in magic runes of dream 
with wand I forged from sharp draconic bone, 
I run with carefree joy in wingless flight 
by breathing clear Zephyrean air of hope 
to fight despair with brave Tritonian faith. 

Spectrum Of Strange Truths

Spectrum Of Strange Truths
© Surazeus
2026 03 13

When my Muse reveals spectrum of strange truths 
arrayed as statues of demonic clowns, 
I fuse my mind with weird riddles to bind 
devious virtues through feverish respect 
from solemn turmoil of typewriter thoughts 
unspooling world view I always believed. 

Despite intermittent sequel of moves 
attending game of mirth against bleak death, 
I push against bounds of physical hope 
that limit expansion of ardent scope 
radiant with fractured words I never speak 
till I reach interval of intact breath. 

Each time our world changes with subtle grace 
through duplication of existing states, 
I leap deceptive loom of glorious fear 
to weave convincing vision of events 
yet to unravel with undefiled force 
at sudden dreaming of explosive fate. 

Uncertain glory veiling mindless trust 
blossoms in flowers from corpse of our god 
corrupted by greed for global control 
where humming children gather by the pool 
to vote with laughter for the haughty fool 
as king of nothing because he lies well. 

Reluctant fallacy of social prayer, 
embodied by galactic ghost of time, 
vibrates with overtones of magic math 
enthralling searchers for evasive truth 
who seal humiliating deeds in jars 
buried in graveyards of outdated creeds. 

Gigantic cactus of conceptual law 
waits lonely in putrid grotto of stones 
tangled with hair of thirty thousand queens 
whose names Time erases with flood of tears 
when sluggish vampire king of loyalists 
charges rent for houses he never owns. 

New discoveries in scientific labs 
alter matrix of reality with jokes 
squeezed from crackling machines of twisted bones 
through convoluted atmosphere of words 
invented by doctors with fractured eyes 
who wander bright shores of Hibernia. 

Unsteady dance on twanging rope of faith 
tempts naive ballerina to transcend 
bottomless abyss of bright nothingness 
from church steeple to the honey-bee hive 
with lithe discipline of angelic soul 
because she likes to hum our river song. 

God Of My World

God Of My World
© Surazeus
2026 03 12

Now that I have become God of my world, 
I can erase my body from Dream Time 
so my name will vanish in gust of wind 
that wanders whistling casually along 
with no care for fortune or fame, those traps 
that suck innocent souls down into Hell. 

Projecting Glow Cloud as God of my world, 
I give sandwiches and bottles of juice 
to homeless people in the city park 
who tell each other tragic tales of loss, 
then follow Moses to the Promised Land 
somewhere over the rainbow of my heart. 

Ascending marble stairs of timeless truth, 
I enter Parthenon where Athena reigned 
since she planted olive tree of true faith 
to feel her spirit glow inside my heart 
as ghost of absence still alive in me 
that molds chaos in loving harmony. 

Loving Athena as God of my world, 
I sing this endless eulogy of faith 
that Liberty inspires the human heart 
to fight for Justice with courageous hand 
through opposition against tyranny 
that maintains progress of democracy. 

Since deathless wisdom is God of my world 
I walk the signless road of honesty, 
evolving from hungry ape of wild woods 
to wingless angel on high pyramid 
singing about creation of the Earth 
when we build Garden of Eden from mud. 

Bathed in Holy Light from God of my world, 
I walk with crowd of people on the street 
in metropolitan maze of the Earth 
where I see angels in all human eyes 
forever searching for pure beam of light 
that fills our bodies with celestial song. 

Measuring time to play God of my world, 
I map extensive patterns of desire 
to plot complex graphs for effect of cause 
which calibrates our mental state of being 
resolving formulas of psychic math 
that program reason in passionate brains. 

Wearing mask that portrays God of my world, 
I conjure virtual world from dream of Earth 
through simple proverb of conceptual faith 
that we get in return whatever we give 
since we reap what we sow with crafty hands, 
then become dirt of Earth from which we bloom. 

Pactolus River Of Fate

Pactolus River Of Fate
© Surazeus
2026 03 12

If rain erases motorcars from time, 
deleting time machines from dream of light, 
then I will reinvent the piston engine 
so I can teleport on rubber wheels 
in chariot designed by Ezekiel 
with wheels Helios fashioned from desire. 

When Janus locks temple door of respect 
against small hands of King Midas at last, 
we shall find wealth, that bitter king of hate 
stole from treasure bank of our thriving state, 
washed into Pactolus River of Fate, 
so we may restore world democracy. 

Then humble Philomel, shepherd of souls 
attuned to emotional needs we hide, 
shall rise with divine power of the sky 
to lead us along Tagus River shore 
in our quest to find the lush Promised Land 
to thrive with peace in hills of Zathamar. 

Lounging on lush river shore by tall elm, 
Sirena herds sheep with attentive eyes, 
and sings harmonious melodies of hope 
in tune with swans that float on silver waves 
when comets blaze in brightness of her soul 
with calm in raging tempest of the world. 

Crowning her gold curls with wreath of pink blooms, 
Philomel plays haunting tunes on wood flute 
as graceful Sirena in long red skirt 
dances joyfully with cool evening breeze 
with gray-bearded Zephyrus brings them pears 
and teases her to marry his shy son. 

Adorned with pearls that gleam on her white breast, 
Sirena gathers berries, nuts, and eggs 
in baskets with her mother Ostara 
who teaches her to brew liquor from fruit 
which Philomel pours in clay jars of hope 
they bury by the river to ferment. 

Driving time-machine car from urban maze, 
swift as wind along winding country roads, 
Ezekiel arrives in Garden of Zatham, 
bringing Cinderella and Romeo 
to visit Juliet and Percival 
whose daughter Epona rides her white pony. 

Gathered at large round table of the feast, 
everyone drinks red wine to celebrate 
birth of our new nation Zarathia 
we build from ruins of America, 
then Orpheus plays lyre of Mercury 
while Ophelia sings Ballad of Hamlet. 

Bougainvillea Of My Heart

Bougainvillea Of My Heart
© Surazeus
2026 03 11

Lost in harsh waste land of the modern world, 
I find bougainvillea of my heart 
thriving through resilience of suffering 
with cool menace of eye-enchanting flowers 
concealing unnoticed thorns of despair 
with treacherous allure of sirenic beauty. 

Enduring legacy of my grandmothers, 
within bougainvillea of my heart, 
thrives with fragile compassion of respect 
connecting my body with my ancestors 
as scarlet flowers shroud crumbling tombstones 
with persistent beauty in ruined homes. 

Flourishing in vast cement maze of myths, 
vital bougainvillea of my heart 
conquers the world with scarlet privilege 
through nostalgia for lost time of ripe oranges 
that drip with blood of angels on my lips 
when I consume resources of the Earth. 

Flower-crowned mask of my delicate nymph, 
who tends bougainvillea of my heart 
with nurturing hands of innocent faith, 
reflects divine face of wise Mother Earth, 
reborn each generation from her womb 
through brave extension of life after death. 

Vibrant beauty of resilient strength, 
that blooms bougainvillea of my heart, 
veils shattered ruins of democracy 
where skeletons dance with bears in red rain 
with the grateful dead of our burning land 
as immigrants displaced by endless wars. 

Kneeling in hilly jungle of Brazil 
to sketch bougainvillea of my heart, 
Jeanne Baret studies its delicate leaves 
that hide treacherous thorns of bitterness, 
amazed at how it flourishes in ash 
as deep pink gash of death-defying beauty. 

Both beautiful and dreadful, fragile blossoms 
that mask bougainvillea of my heart, 
sprout from roots that curl deep into hard soil, 
gripping rocks of mountains with angel hands 
which suppresses depression with fierce joy 
of urgent passion to live beyond death. 

Tangled in excessive tendrils of faith, 
wired from bougainvillea of my heart, 
I struggle against bounds of time and space 
to expand scope of curious consciousness 
broad enough to enclose every lost soul 
who attends show in garden of blind ghosts. 

Voice Of Faceless God

Voice Of Faceless God
© Surazeus
2026 03 11

Voice of faceless god reverberates 
through weak eyes of mortals who testify 
to inner beauty of dream-beaming brains 
that bind psychotic scales of timeless hope 
with absolution of fantastic guilt 
which leaves us floating in oblivion. 

My heart curves into silence of the Earth, 
imploding boldly with brilliant words 
unbound by principles of blithe respect 
through unconditional rules based on fear 
defined by sea waves swirling on hot sand 
on which I tumble with tedious faith. 

Constrained by monotonous disbelief 
in ceremonious rites of mental growth, 
I manufacture miracles from lust 
for mind-expansion of absurdist wind 
which entertains my sense of dignity 
through recreation of humility. 

My voice dares mountains to explain why pain 
contrives our wishful bleariness of thirst 
by trudging vainly toward garden of gods 
while I pray with serendipitous rage 
for brave interludes in false paradise, 
demanding haste of madness to debate. 

If I succumb to sudden shift of fate 
with untainted love for merciless skies, 
my heart may swell against locked doors of truth 
to reach absolute void of heartless love 
because my body decays with each day 
I dream magnificence of fruitful trees. 

Disturbed by alien anguish I deny, 
I prepare to leap shade of wretched chime 
with yearning passion of never-read books 
by craving darkness of death-anxious fruit 
where wordless thoughts whisper in humming trees 
so I catch rain with shadow of my hands. 

Insignificant doll of rotten flesh, 
birthed by wet sorrow of maternal moon, 
I break conceptions of unperformed wrongs 
that could destroy illusions of strange joy 
cherished by nameless strangers who contrive 
to fool the laughing ghost of broken stones. 

No fervid wish of seamless fortitude 
could crack my dreadful trust in shameless death 
despite investment of my hungry heart 
in grand delusions of unwanted fame 
that cripple my assertive vanity 
with shocking wisdom of genetic gain. 

Expansive Scope Of Truth

Expansive Scope Of Truth
© Surazeus
2026 03 10

When I am worthy of myself at last, 
after my random journey through the world 
on roads in both natural and urban zones, 
I shall attend with cloud-calm dignity 
to treasure my expansive scope of truth 
designed by divine workmanship of hope. 

If Nature seems to frame my fragile being 
as favored worshipper of her weird state, 
this award bodes as generous testament 
to faith-focused progress of my intent 
with honest will to transcend weak account 
in dispute with fear that discharges guilt. 

Exposed to harsh elements of despair 
that blast my soul with grim indifference, 
I ramble rugged terrain of false dreams 
with troubled pleasure of aggressive stealth 
to discover source of time-sparkling light 
that casts ethereal glow on craggy steep. 

Clear pool of water among humming trees, 
that seems Plutonian phantom to conceal 
with supple mist of voluntary faith, 
extracts from framework of my filtered heart 
judgmental horror as keyword revised 
by lurid lecture of contemptuous wind. 

Awake with eerie insight of respect, 
I row tenuous boat of my heart forth 
across moon-shattered lake of bold grandeur 
while vulgar passions seethe with discipline 
to intercourse with Nature against Death 
among gloomy hills of sweet solitude. 

Resounding echo of my wordless cry 
cracks no ice-hard precipice of weird truth 
with good intentions of my anxious heart 
to earn kind favor of Nature with song 
of tranquil sleeplessness in morbid dreams, 
though my soul emanates from River Stone. 

Awed by Presences of Nature that glow 
on surface of this universal globe, 
I hide delight of triumph behind mask 
of calm ennui, impressed with character 
of my brave spirit molded into mask 
I wear to shield my heart from hungry fear. 

When I devise puzzle of virtual Earth 
through scheme to map whole history of mankind, 
I carve runes in cyphers on trunks of trees 
recording names and deeds of forest kings 
till Fortune taunts me with lightning-blazed fire 
that erases our story from the world. 

When Kingdoms Collapse

When Kingdoms Collapse
© Surazeus
2026 03 10

Chronic concept of the fortified mind, 
compiled from facial circuit of blank fate, 
contributes to spate of unlicensed fame 
contained by keyword of improved impact, 
based on fair complexion of my grim mood 
which notifies my colleagues of the news. 

Unfractured friendship of forgetful faith 
reveals my desire to prepare canned goods, 
jars of peaches, applesauce, beets, and pickles, 
because I must stock basements shelves with hope 
that I could survive collapse of the state 
alone on prairie of my nameless ghosts. 

Young woman with long hair flowing in wind 
arrives with the hurricane after dawn, 
and gives me book of ancient fairy tales 
that tell strange stories of powerful gods 
who play with humans as puppets and pawns, 
so I turn my face to gold fields of wheat. 

Heaping bags of wheat on the wagon plat, 
with four sturdy wheels Helios designed, 
I transport goods to warehouse of stone walls 
where the Loaf Ward buys bags of wheat with coins 
of gold stamped with face of Phoebus Apollo, 
so I forge coins into crown with twelve rubies. 

While driving black car down the dusty road, 
teleporting in time machine of hope, 
I wonder at the speed I race away 
far faster than the swift-galloping horse, 
then lean against the brick wall of the bank 
and sing folk songs while I play beat guitar. 

Death comes to me as the woman in black, 
with eyes that flash bright as the Morning Star, 
who gives me my heart trapped inside the rock, 
which she breaks free with hammer of desire, 
so I transform into the moon-eyed owl, 
and my heart beats when the mountain wolves howl. 

Maybe I will understand the world war 
being fought between England and Germany, 
lands where parents of my parents were born, 
so my divided heart now fights itself, 
unless I climb jagged mountain of snow 
and cry out to the blind angels of Heaven. 

Let the grandsons of Queen Victoria 
fight each other over the Crown of Jesus, 
while I plow my fields with hands of respect 
and can the produce of my honest heart, 
for nations will rise when kingdoms collapse, 
designed and built by hands of loyal men. 

Shining Mountains Of Light

Shining Mountains Of Light
© Surazeus
2026 03 09

The purple columbine of my aching heart 
blooms beside rocky mountain valley spring 
that sings with ancient voice of wordless joy 
while washing all my sorrows to the sea, 
so I almost believe that I can fly, 
but I breathe spirit of the sky instead. 

Attentive wisdom of snow, crusted white 
with timeless beauty of starlight, displays 
faceless beauty of our immortal soul 
all humans share, molded by suffering 
from passion into social mask we wear, 
which almost mirrors divine mind of light. 

Exhausting though the climb may be, rough path 
of glacier-fractured stones winding sideways 
in rolling basin of the mountain vale, 
I breathe patient endurance of orange clouds 
with persistence of pioneers, that fuels 
progressive quest of my immortal genes. 

Far from people-crowded streets of commerce 
that wind through cement canyons of ambition, 
I stand tall in rugged meadow of flowers 
among the vast Shining Mountains of Light, 
and watch with awe how dawn rays of the sun 
luminate Tava Kaavi, Mountain of the Sun. 

Gazing east far over mountains and seas, 
I strain to see around curve of the Earth 
Mount Olympus where All-Father was born 
who strode on rugged clouds of broken stones 
to fill his heart with courage of the wind 
in fight against cruel Titans to live free. 

Bright apparition of some great world savior, 
robed in white, hair blowing in divine wind, 
appears on white horse with gold horn of power 
and shining wings of star authority, 
so I wonder what god my eyes perceive, 
Zeus, Brahma, Jesus, Odin, or Shangdi. 

Perhaps one man descended from them all, 
combining their divine souls in one mind, 
may appear from turmoil of history 
and unite warring nations of the Earth 
with open hands of generosity 
that rule justice and liberty for all. 

This fantasy of one wise global ruler 
inspires nationalist pride of every tribe 
who believe their own god will rule the Earth, 
but I know they are all but mortal men 
who fight each other over dirt and rain, 
so I walk with the person I love most. 

Table Of Feast And Song

Table Of Feast And Song
© Surazeus
2026 03 09

When the wind blows through the doors of my heart, 
I wake from dream where our world falls apart, 
so I stroll among flowers of the field 
to contemplate virtual world on war shield 
which Achilles bore with defiant arm 
when he fought great war of feminine charm. 

Programmed with dreams of the language machine, 
my brain assembles from weird puzzling facts 
patchwork world view that frames what might be real 
through fraught ontology my thoughts design 
that centers everything on Death and Tax 
since Earth is indifferent to how I feel. 

Learning how to shape dreams from Morpheus 
so Ideas of Plato catalog 
objects I perceive with subjective stance, 
I weave vast tapestry of fractured tales 
that represent patterns of psychic tropes 
which nurture how our hearts survive on hopes. 

Wearing discarded mask of Orpheus, 
I search through endless swirls of verbal fog 
to find my brain expanding from dream trance 
with solemn beauty of wise ocean whales 
who float with jeweled crowns and red silk robes, 
and discuss organic life on earth globes. 

With Lamp of Liberty and Book of Deeds, 
I walk crowded streets of America 
as prophet who returns from the waste land 
with sacred proverbs based on moral rules 
that define good and bad as acts we play 
to construct or destruct structures of atoms. 

I worship the Sun as Solaria 
that weaves our bodies from soul-beams of light, 
and worship the Earth as Telluria 
that generates our souls from singing waves, 
for I am temporary name-masked soul 
attentive to perform my chosen role. 

Wise Shepherd in lush field of sparkling wheat 
guides us with his staff of comforting light 
through the valley of the shadow of death 
to the lake that teems with delicious fish 
where he prepares table of feast and song 
so we dwell in house of wisdom he built. 

When the wind blows through the doors of my heart, 
I rebuild our lost world with new star chart 
to shelter every refugee from war 
who shares labor in the field and the store, 
while Aeneas reigns in tower of dreams 
to guard our tribe that dwells by flowing streams.  

If I Adjust Cycle

If I Adjust Cycle
© Surazeus
2026 03 08

If I adjust cycle of my emotions 
to match exploding stars of naked words, 
I might find Lost Princess with seven eyes 
singing in forest of eccentric clowns, 
yet when I turn on the glass radio 
ghosts from distant stars call my secret name. 

If I adjust temperature of my rage 
to counter pain of patient pertinence, 
I might wake on the moon in time to see 
God break every pattern of human faith, 
yet I anticipate the second coming 
while typing at my desk in the hot swamp. 

If I adjust ingenuous mode of reason 
to lock my brain with alternative truth, 
I might caress sensuous contours of time 
to surf tidal wave of continuum 
silhouetted by dramatic regret 
when I follow claw-prints in bloody snow. 

If I adjust celebration of wisdom 
in spite of artificial victory, 
I might taste resolve of the Gardener 
to rebuild Garden of Eden in Hades 
that matches permanent state of respect 
fractured by pendulum unwound by fate. 

If I adjust lassitude of each season 
that returns with ostensible perversion, 
I might reclaim discolored photograph 
that proves I committed those evil crimes 
based on defeated memory of chimes 
gracious with flowers of frantic endurance. 

If adjust flight of arrogant breath 
by swooping wingless over power lines, 
I might remember who gives me their mask 
by calling my name on the telephone, 
which I deny outside of time and space 
because I am spectator of the race. 

If I adjust standards of moral values 
to style our fight as matter of survival, 
I might sense absence of psychotic color 
by starting enterprise of stolen wealth 
with uncommon manners of noble clowns 
who fight each other for the secret key. 

If I adjust scale of false modesty 
to join holy cult of the Water Book, 
I might sidle past the house of dead gods 
to rendezvous with Death down by the river 
that flushes human bodies to the sea 
with indifferent auspice no one perceives. 

Ten Thousand Doors Of Time

Ten Thousand Doors Of Time
© Surazeus
2026 03 08

Strange beauty of inflections keys my mind 
with barbaric flash of the star-black eye 
that gazes from core of the universe 
to dream my soul awake with flashing words 
frail as icicle on limb of the tree 
that whistles casually in winter wind. 

Lucid shadow of my eternal soul 
traces indecipherable cause of hope 
through bodies of all my ancestral souls 
who speak with inescapable concepts 
about great circle of euphoric light 
that glitters sharply at far edge of time. 

Great river of my adaptive heart flows 
with brave insistence of electric snow 
that molds our bodies from evasive fear 
so we climb trees and swing vast canopies 
six thousand miles from sea to shining sea 
till we transform from monkeys into humans. 

Silver-eyed blackbird in the apple tree 
recounts obsessive journey of my soul 
one hundred million years to find the cave 
where the sun is reborn every new day 
till I forget what I am looking for 
and live by the river ten thousand years. 

Blue clouds occur above my empty house 
where I collect raindrops in open eyes 
unfractured by contorted strength of faith 
to prove I first designed the wheel of time 
that mimics eye in mirror of the sun 
which survives the death of every state god. 

One fragile candle, glowing gold with faith 
one fleeting moment through eternity, 
contains dim conscious sense of self I am 
because I play the Mad Astronomer 
whose eyes have seen galactic deities 
possess chemical shells of mortal gods. 

Essential shadow of my abstract mind 
proves my organic body must be real 
when I eat apples of the mountain slopes 
that teach my animal mouth how to speak 
so I walk through ten thousand doors of time 
to find lush valley of my singing skull. 

Only the blind remember how the past 
shines clear in tragic tales of story books 
which I record with raven quill of truth 
I dip in gold ichor of divine blood 
till time erases every word I write 
so all your names vanish from cliff of truth. 

New Life Always Springs

New Life Always Springs
© Surazeus
2026 03 08

Vague splatter of misty rain on soft grass 
frames frantic despair of my heart with glow 
of mute sorrow at constant loss of life, 
yet new life always springs from mud of death 
with flourishing passion of timeless desire 
for us to dwell together in our space. 

Paused at flaming gates to leave paradise, 
I look back at shining temples of gold 
where people cheer song of the noble hero, 
then turn my face to emptiness of hope 
and walk in graveyard of the lonely world 
where billions of people killed in wars wait. 

I almost hear their voices in the wind, 
each one telling me of their tragic fate, 
till all their spirits swirl in hurricane 
of mocking laughter at God on his throne 
who glares enraged that his authority 
crumbles at relentless process of fate. 

Instead of arranging flowers on graves 
of innocent people mangled by bombs, 
I scatter apple seeds that sprout in trees 
so cemetery of our endless wars 
transforms into vast forest of fruit trees 
which nourish my body with love for life. 

Billions of trees blooming from our dead bodies 
transform material of our dreaming brains 
to stars that glitter in vast void of space 
with unrequited love for worlds of souls 
who live and die with endless swirl of change 
as we evolve from fish to singing god. 

On every planet in the universe 
one conscious creature pauses on their way, 
and gazes through infinity of space 
to see each other in mirror of love, 
our special faces becoming one face 
who sings our dreams in timeless song of light. 

Though I may weep for every conscious soul 
who ever lived and died on every world, 
collective radiance of their countless brains 
weaves my small brain in matrix of their truth 
so I dream complex patterns of their lives 
when I sleep under watch of the Moon Crow. 

When I meet Circe on the ocean shore 
and drink wine offered by her generous hand, 
I find my mortal body of desire 
transformed into immortal beam of light 
when she gives birth to me from seed of hope 
that drives me to live ten thousand years more. 

Lilacs Of Sordid Desire

Lilacs Of Sordid Desire
© Surazeus
2026 03 08

Attuned to song of river stones, I climb 
ladder of ideas with bravery 
to find wild fiddler on the mountain slope 
who causes lilacs of sordid desire 
to bloom from corpses of huge dinosaurs, 
so I photograph it all with my brain. 

Beneath veneer of civilized respect 
shy mountain wolf wakes in my wounded heart 
while I trudge alone on Sahara dunes, 
clutching rifle to my chest with vain prayer 
that whistles in the waste land of concern 
with holy shimmer of the godless sun. 

I gather gold coins from fallen empires 
to catalog their depictions in code 
of kings as gods who rule with wand of death 
by whacking people on the low-bowed head 
to teach them wisdom of subservience 
loyal to the angry man in the tower. 

Separate from likeness of the changing world, 
I remind myself that time spools my brain 
with memories that I weave in tapestries 
showing epic tales about tragic heroes 
who grasp lightning bolts with courageous hands 
to photograph everything that occurs. 

After I might have figured it all out, 
listening to thousands of people talk 
about mistakes they made, or their victimhood, 
I walk away from city of blind fools 
to sit on the hill where butterflies flit, 
and watch their buildings burn when thieves attack. 

While we sit face to face beside the lake 
at small round table of the quaint cafe, 
I measure distance between our brain worlds 
that gapes wide with magical mindfulness 
recorded through songs on the radio 
which I sing with aching voice of desire. 

When tangle of our bodies is undone 
by emotional memories we share, 
hearts aching with pleasure of vain regret, 
I work to keep everyone I love safe 
from sudden disintegration of truth 
that leaves us stranded without guiding myths. 

Pretty inwardness of angels we love 
radiates from religious paintings of saints 
martyred in spiritual climate of fear 
through mind-numbing fantasy of false pride 
that angels guide our nation to subdue 
unruly states who worship their own gods. 

Slime Evolving Into God

Slime Evolving Into God
© Surazeus
2026 03 07

Since I am slime evolving into God, 
halfway along mutation way of truth, 
I play chess with blind angel of the sea 
who smiles at me from her aquarium tank, 
but when I break her free from stereotype 
she flies away into the Great Blue Eye. 

I sing through solid stone of my sponge brain 
the sacred name my angel dreams for me, 
so I invent the primal alphabet 
depicting people fishing by the sea 
which traps productive souls in myths of gods 
who wield sharp knives to carve death into time. 

Since I am slime evolving into God, 
reborn from heart of darkness seven ways 
from fractured kingdom of the gothic rose, 
I wear skull of the dragon on my head 
to reign as Pope for thirteen thousand years, 
tending fruit trees in Garden of Zathar. 

Wrapped in cocoon of letters Eve designed, 
I transform from small furry dinosaur 
to long-legged cat that scampers in tall trees 
where I sing heart-enchanting tune of love 
in mind-expanding code of tree-root truth 
from which I weave vast tapestry of tales. 

Since I am slime evolving into God, 
I fly ingenious plane with angel wings 
among bright clouds where crystal temples shine, 
then drop aggressive bombs on ancient towns 
that shatter schools where young girls sing in choirs 
whose bodies float on bloody wings of light. 

Perplexed at sight of planes in turbid skies, 
Mercurius runs through maze of crowded streets 
till bomb destroys illusion of his state 
so he lies mangled in museum ruins 
still clutching lyre of turtle shell he made 
that rings romantic songs on radios. 

Since I am slime evolving into God, 
I join the barbarous brotherhood of faith 
to fight for who will own Narcissus Pool 
till all weak losers crumble into dust 
so warriors alone inherit the Earth 
destroyed by bombs exploding in our brains. 

I build new Heaven on ruins of Hell 
from spiraling orbs of terrible truth 
where Isaiah sees six-winged Seraphim 
create our bodies from atomic rays 
that radiate waves of frantic molecules 
from God Brain at core of the universe. 

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.