Writhing Agony Of Love

Writhing Agony Of Love
© Surazeus
2026 05 29

Shocked by how often angels fall from Heaven, 
I express ardent anguish of concern 
that Earth is now littered with wounded souls 
who search for paradise of innocence 
that may only exist in morning dreams 
of lounging by the river eating fruit. 

We dream of how life could be on this Earth 
based on memories all our ancestors lived 
life after life in garden of fruit trees, 
plucking fruit from the wide generous world, 
though always watching out for hidden snakes 
who lie that we can gain eternal life. 

Those golden eyes gleam bright with eager hope 
that conjure visions of eternal life 
each morning as we taste sweet fruit of faith 
though our lithe bodies soon begin to fail, 
and youthful strength withers as we decay 
to stumble in decrepit solitude. 

Writhing in anguish on the forest floor, 
from helpless agony of bitter hope, 
that like our parents we crumble to dust 
after rotting flesh is consumed by worms, 
we cry out to the empty faceless sky 
for arcane secret to live beyond death. 

Bright halo of the sun that blinds my eyes 
surrounds head of strange angel who appears 
as if they descend from gold clouds of faith, 
so I grasp hand extended with concern 
and stand to face the mirror of my face 
that smiles at me with pure innocent grace. 

Aroused by passion of conceptual plan 
to share sweet pleasure of warm juicy kiss, 
we open arms of lonely hearts with trust 
to cling with gentle honesty of faith, 
embraced in writhing agony of love 
that merges separate bodies in one mind. 

Dissolving boundaries between our souls 
in frantic mission to transcend cold death, 
we share excessive heat of loneliness 
till soaring angel seed of ardent hope 
penetrates global egg of singing truth 
till we are pregnant with divine god soul. 

New child born from our passionate embrace 
grows strong and bright-eyed with innocent grace 
so we teach them to describe what they see 
till they perceive true essence of all things, 
then we lie down to die in happiness 
that we have gained eternal life in them. 

Ultimate Origin Of All Souls

Ultimate Origin Of All Souls
© Surazeus
2026 05 28

Floating in the alternate universe 
where I am not brave sailor on the ship 
destined to overthrow city of Troy, 
I strut with vampire grace on empty stage 
before the camera that adores my face, 
eager to time-slip back to my own world. 

We run toward each other on windless beach, 
faces glowing in sunset of desire, 
but just as we are about to embrace 
I teleport on wings of Icarus 
alone to some alternate universe 
where I pick grapes in vineyard of the Lord. 

Serapis strides among the cheering crowd 
in shining streets of Alexandria 
with gold-haired angel Seraph by his side 
whose star-eyed lion whips long serpent tail, 
till they all vanish in hot winds of time 
at whoosh of cars controlled by traffic lights. 

I hear sweet voice of Seraph call my name, 
so I rise up at midnight from my bed 
and stroll Garden of Eden in moonlight 
to find map of Oleron on the bench 
beside Fountain of Youth that has run dry 
just as I decide I should learn to fly. 

When I find old knight slouched on marble steps 
before Temple of Apollo at dawn, 
which is now some Presbyterian church, 
he recites his quest for the Holy Grail 
that had left him homeless and destitute 
till he found Jesus in the hungry poor. 

His wide eyes blazing with fanatic faith, 
he tells me how he gave water and bread 
to old sick man slouching before the bank 
who transformed into Jesus with star eyes, 
just like Supreme God Vishnu Bhagavan 
manifests through Krishna, the mortal seer. 

All-pervading cosmic reality 
glows as absolute formless god of light 
in every conscious mortal being of flesh 
who has ever lived in the universe 
as ultimate origin of all souls 
who radiates countless gods in human brains. 

I am no Arjuna nor Sir Launfal, 
so I skip along winding road of life 
on my way from Scotland to Maryland 
where I fall in love with wise Onatah 
who teaches me how to grow and cook corn 
in true fairy land of Zarathia. 

Spirit Of The Wounded God

Spirit Of The Wounded God
© Surazeus
2026 05 28

Lost in the endless maze of burning books, 
Percival searches for the Holy Grail 
while ignoring the homeless, sick, and poor 
who linger at the gates of Paradise, 
till the sparkle-eyed fairy Tryamour 
offers him love and wealth in secrecy. 

From halls of Cardevyle he rides away 
with jeweled keys he swiped from Lancelot 
to find the charming Lady of Shallot 
who bakes sweet apple pies from Tree of Life, 
but dainty Tryamour pursues his path 
to find he weeping on the bridge of fate. 

Though I am not the gentle knight you love, 
sly Percival cries with anguish of hope, 
I hope you sense sincerity I feel 
and choose to travel road of life with me, 
so haughty Tryamour buys fancy yacht 
and sails with him to misty Oleron. 

When Percival slides down steep sandy dune 
and stumbles on the ocean shore of fate, 
he discovers long-haired Acrisius, 
ancient king of some long-forgotten land, 
weeping over skull of his noble son 
stoned by Medusa with her piercing eyes. 

When Percival tries to wake the Slumbering God 
with haunting melodies of ocean waves, 
sweet Tryamour consults the Oracle 
to ask when he will find the Holy Grail, 
but Sibyl chuckles in her golden cage 
and mumbles something about the White Crow. 

Returning to work at the city bank, 
after fishing all weekend on the sea, 
Percival calculates profits and loss 
from too many defaulting mortgage loans, 
so he strolls the riverside park at noon 
where hungry homeless dwell in tattered tents. 

Would you prefer to live in Fairy Land 
with me and all my sisters with star eyes, 
clever Tryamour asks the shy bank clerk, 
who brings boxes of food in his white van 
every afternoon to the homeless camp 
who ask him if he found the Holy Grail. 

I see in people suffering poverty, 
who lost the intense capitalist game, 
Percival says to his wife, Tryamour, 
true holy spirit of the Wounded God 
whose light of honest love shines in the hearts 
of those who feel we all deserve respect. 

Born As Adventist

Born As Adventist
© Surazeus
2026 05 27

Awake in endless desert forged from bones, 
designed by swirls of agony and joy 
in storm of sensation that blooms as trees 
from urgency of faith in what is real, 
I feel my body transform from weird words 
that mold mirror mask over my flesh face. 

Struck by epiphany of curling roots 
that provide general guidelines in dream code 
for submission of desire to world peace, 
my mind expands from adventurous seed 
to borrow wings of Icarus with pride 
so I can fly above my memory maze. 

Beneath wild sea of calm anxiety, 
where angels invent mental telephones 
from writhing tendrils of demonic clowns, 
my family swims in swirls of holy hymns 
through false argument of glib poverty, 
constrained by social rules of hungry hope. 

Lush meadow on credible sunlit moors  
lures my enchanted heart to settle down 
in vain attempt at prayer with humble trees 
to buy salvation from the fractured stone 
who still repeats forged riddle of despair 
at taste of honey oozing from my tongue. 

Born as Adventist in small prairie house, 
composed of pine logs from dark Raven Wood, 
I stare at glowing clouds of fearful faith 
to watch for Phoebus Christ on beating wings 
who may descend from palace in the sky 
to cast all evil tyrants in hot hell. 

Witness to turbulent eddies of change, 
which surge from energetic hearts of souls 
ambitious to assert bold right to dwell 
by azure pond where honest demons lurk 
with divine grace in morbid field of thoughts, 
I lounge on porch of my cabin and laugh. 

Not deep enough to shield my wounded heart, 
too eager to escape dutiful play, 
our secret pond conceals my naked mind 
from privileged arrogance of stolen wealth 
so I build houses on the roadless plain 
for wanderers to dwell in tense accord. 

Death carries me across the codeless plain 
and lays my fragile soul on dire lake shore 
where brave blue heron shields my humble hearth 
with tender wings of innocent respect, 
so I compose in secret book of lies 
my fake memoir with blood of gods as ink. 

Wake Through Weird Visions

Wake Through Weird Visions
© Surazeus
2026 05 27

Without any explanation for why 
we wander endless maze of life on Earth, 
we each invent our own reason for being 
so our hearts blaze with blinding light of faith 
that guides our steps through obstacles of fear 
to eat and sing till we decay and die. 

This glorious hour of timeless ecstasy 
when we consume sweet fruit of wordless angst 
and dance without restraint of social rules 
in aching passion to transcend this world 
and soar among high clouds to paradise 
now seems to vanish in mute flash of dawn. 

This cup of juice I lift with trembling hand 
to toast strange beauty of our vibrant life 
I drain to bitter dregs of final death 
that crushes lithe bodies to nothingness 
and scatters dust of our bones in dry fields 
where flowers mock us with indifferent dance. 

Bright dream of faith that swells my throbbing head 
with awesome sense of pure divinity 
convinces me my conscious sense of self, 
by which my mind conceives immortal life, 
will outlast transient pulsing of my flesh 
so I might live again after I die. 

That unknown country beyond bourn of death 
from which no traveler ever returns 
is nowhere in this realm of changing forms, 
so I keep walking endless road of hope 
to leap beyond abyss of nothingness, 
yet I soon realize I deceive myself. 

How sweet this weird enchanting sound of grace 
which I express from wretched fear of death 
that every human walking this vast world 
is lost with me on signless road of faith 
so we together overcome all snares 
in toil to build our real Heaven on Earth. 

Since we shall vanish from this spinning Earth 
when conscious sense of self will dissipate, 
though atoms of our bodies will transform 
to soil applied by roots to conjure fruit, 
we choose to celebrate with solemn joy 
that we at least are still alive this hour. 

I never find explanation for why 
Earth generates our bodies from the sea 
by weaving carbon strands of sparkling hope 
in neural network of our dreaming brains, 
so I decide light of the universe 
strives to wake through weird visions my heart sings. 

Ruined Temple Of Masks

Ruined Temple Of Masks
© Surazeus
2026 05 26

If deviant people climb steeple of faith 
with hope to fly on wings of Icarus 
from sorrow of Earth to pleasure of Heaven, 
they might wonder what faith really entails 
as they fall back into turmoil of time, 
soul trapped inside the sponge brain of the self. 

Consider the horse that grazes on grass 
and wanders meadow of arrogant wind 
within sacred bounds of the barbed-wire fence, 
and remember when we explored the world 
racing across endless plains of desire 
till we colonized ever river shore. 

I never see horses anywhere now 
while I drive my car in vast maze of streets 
past buildings of mysterious intent 
where only long-dead gods are innocent, 
so I climb the mountain of timeless truth 
and sit in the ruined temple of masks. 

So many moments of embarrassment 
startle my daily strut of confidence 
because I forget how clumsy I am 
stumbling randomly on road of my fate 
though I attempt to swerve from ordained track 
through free will basic to my character. 

Lost in dark forest with my Golden Wreath, 
as savage beast transformed by curse of faith, 
I wander nowhere past the Promised Land 
till beautiful daughter of the Moon God 
sees my human soul inside the white bear, 
therefore her love restores my human form. 

Wearing white-bear mask of King Valemon, 
I play my role in television show 
that people watch when Earth is veiled with snow 
since I restore Kingdom of Avalon 
when I defeat Cruel Troll in the White House 
by tricking him to steal the Crown of Thorns. 

When I am done uniting Earth in peace, 
I return to my planet far away 
which in Terrish is named Zarathia 
because First Mother Zaratha creates 
our bodies from electric rainbow eyes 
with first flash that flares forth from the big bang. 

So join me at kitchen table of faith 
to feast well in ruined temple of masks 
where face of every human who has lived 
on every planet in the universe 
sings story of their life in riddle-verse 
preserved in Book of Souls by the Star Wraith. 

Futile Television Shows

Futile Television Shows
© Surazeus
2026 05 26

Earth eats beauty and ugliness alike, 
and grave of time abundant hope consumes, 
since happiness and sorrow dissipate 
together in vast sweep of mindless wind, 
thus I maintain calm rituals of delight 
to treasure ornaments till endless night. 

Though pleasure increase beauty in new forms 
from fertile fields of wisdom spurred by hope, 
time crushes beauty into twisted lust 
for aching urgency to transcend death, 
yet I accept decay of vital flesh 
that scatters atoms of my self in wind. 

This self I build from memories of hope, 
composed of actions I perform from need, 
will crack in fragments of dismembered days 
lit by sunlight of long-lost afternoons 
in cities far from where I dwell today, 
preserved in futile television shows. 

I look in mirror of reflective thoughts 
to study how mask of my face has changed 
through sixty years of urgent ardency 
to play grand role of potent fortitude 
my mind believes Fate commissioned for me 
to stamp my sign on documents of truth. 

My golden prime decays to brazen mask 
that hangs on walls of clean suburban homes 
preserving moment of bright agency 
that fades in voiceless rooms of timeless dream 
contrived to flash beyond posterity 
as traffic signal red with flame of truth. 

Should rich bequest of Nature flush my heart 
with noble legacy of solemn hymns 
that hail true beauty pulsing in brave hearts 
of voiceless people struggling to survive, 
then light my soul casts to part veil of gloom 
may guide staunch wanderers on road of truth. 

Thus I attend my golden pilgrimage 
to climb steep hill of heavenly respect 
through strength of duty to enhance world view 
that frames chaos of Nature with strict rules 
designed to guide our quest on righteous way 
where our deeds create rather than destroy. 

Sweet music I sing to forge strong concord 
in lithe communal network of brave souls 
embraces every wanderer with hope 
that honest nurture of talents to skills 
disarms cruel exploitation of blind greed 
so our faulty Heaven secures all life. 

I Want To Believe

I Want To Believe
© Surazeus
2026 05 26

False as devils wearing bright angel masks 
are those who willfully misunderstand 
specific statements that assert clear points 
contrary to selfish motives through greed 
their tangled words conceal in trite bromides 
that dislocate perverted attributes. 

While I keep my head in the stars of dream 
I bind my body to the ground of truth 
when I investigate uncanny tales 
of alien beings from planets far away 
who buzz our globe in saucers of star gems 
to document the hoax of dreamless facts. 

When the Men in Black appear in my house, 
beaming down from starship in the sky, 
they spread angelic wings of glowing silk 
to gaze deep in my mind with crystal eyes 
that project visions of the universe 
so I see spiral coil of cosmic truth. 

Ten thousand orbs of light flash in the sky 
over ten thousand towns across the land 
so journalists in cars speed lone highways 
to chase gray aliens across desert plains 
to end of the rainbow where ghosts of fear 
vanish in sudden gust of wordless wind. 

I want to believe, the agent declares, 
while gathering evidence of aliens, 
and photographs god in the flying machine 
who arrives with wisdom of ancient souls 
to usher in New Age of Peace on Earth 
so all social conflicts evaporate. 

Call them angels or devils in spaceships, 
the crazy man in the tinfoil hat shouts, 
but they are ancient demons from the stars 
who rise up from the surging sea of fear 
as Godzilla who rules Earth with despair, 
while waving blurry photographs of planes. 

Wide-eyed Icarus on the Silver Bridge 
spreads white wings wide against storm-blasting wind 
and howls with hope in grim Plutonian night 
as millions of people gaze in his eyes 
that hypnotize their minds with secret truth 
so they call for aliens to save our world. 

When storm clouds part at blazing flash of dawn, 
Jesus beams down from Starship Enterprise 
and walks among all nations on our globe 
who proclaim him Emperor of the Earth, 
so I turn off that television show 
and sit on my front porch to play guitar. 

Golden Apple Eris Threw

Golden Apple Eris Threw
© Surazeus
2026 05 25

If I could but teleport anywhere 
when my heart beats frantic with fear of death, 
then I would visit soulmate of my heart 
though she lives on the other side of Earth, 
so in domestic quietude of love 
we may embrace in garden of respect. 

If no celestial light may inward shine 
and through divinity of weird insight 
irradiate my mind with ancient truth, 
then I would record in conceptual spells 
ideal social state fair laws should support 
against which oligarchs forever fight. 

If I may reconstruct this broken world 
on noble principles of honest hope 
that could heal damaged hearts of wounded souls, 
then I would foil with repetitious tricks 
greedy thieves that hijack our government 
and free humanity from psychic debt. 

If I escape loud television shows 
on fierce angelic wings of Icarus 
with brave intent of courage to oppose 
cruel tyrants seeking to enslave mankind, 
then I would drive my car to work at dawn 
to map progress of human ardency. 

If I hear song of brave Persephone 
reverberate through halls of government 
about her plan to free the human heart, 
then I would walk bright Paris streets at dawn 
to find the Golden Apple Eris threw 
so I can choose Athena as my bride. 

If I could step in the same river twice 
to measure ceaseless flow of mental change 
and map configuration of dream time, 
then I would build bronze monument to truth 
to share with Heraclitus chocolate milk 
and ginger cookies in the Parthenon. 

If I could spin fate by the ticking clock 
that rewinds code of human history 
which proves my crazy theory true at last, 
then I would play role of new Thunder God, 
vulnerable to emotional compassion, 
while Phoebus plays organ in the glass church. 

If I should hear the dead speak my new name 
with mountain-echo voice of Raven Ghost, 
then I will strum lost lyre of Mercury, 
and sing while Empire of America 
burns from pillage of cruel oligarchs 
when the White House sinks in mud of contempt. 

Demon Trapped In Her Heart

Demon Trapped In Her Heart
© Surazeus
2026 05 25

Weird silence after the violin tune, 
that adjusts the universe slightly slant, 
convinces Charlotte she just might be dead, 
but she stands after the applause dies down 
and almost floats out of the theater 
because her spirit shimmers in moonlight. 

Shocked by shadow of her face in gold glass 
that wavers thin as candleflame of faith, 
shy Charlotte cringes when her husband grins 
at how he will beat her when they get home, 
so she tries to disappear in moonlight 
that wakes strange demon in stream of her heart. 

Beside her husband in the atrium, 
who chats with senators and generals, 
dear Charlotte hides her terror behind mask 
of gentle smiles and clear attentive eyes 
that constrain the demon trapped in her heart, 
while she hears voices speak in secret code. 

Riding with Death in black carriage of fate, 
that clatters wheels of fortune at midnight 
along the winding streets of destiny, 
Charlotte ponders state of eternity 
while breathing deep to engage in soul flight 
till they arrive at their palace estate. 

Stepping from carriage in glow of moonlight, 
Charlotte wraps her body in devil wings 
to hide her wounded heart in timeless gloom, 
then raises pistol in her trembling hand 
and fires one bullet in his glaring eye, 
then turns and flees into the Whisper Woods. 

Hiding behind the garden fountain pool, 
Charlotte stares in shock at the bearded man 
who asks her with official police voice 
if she saw face of the evil assassin 
who dropped the pistol when he fired the shot, 
but she shakes her head and cries in light of dawn. 

Gaunt face of grief hidden by black-lace veil, 
Charlotte beams with uncanny happiness 
as she listens to the old priest declare 
that we come from dust, and to dust return, 
then tosses on his coffin one red rose 
while heavenly angels in gold clouds sing. 

Sweet silence after the violin tune, 
that readjusts the slanted universe, 
convinces Charlotte she will never die, 
so she runs gracefully in garden maze 
in flirtatious chase with the young musician 
to kiss with passion by the apple tree. 

Fragile Faith In Death

Fragile Faith In Death
© Surazeus
2026 05 25

Inspired to live by fragile faith in death, 
I stroll streets of Paris in evening breeze 
to find elusive ghost of sad Pierrot 
who waits on every street corner at dawn 
for me to offer wounded heart of love 
with honest acceptance of nothingness. 

Startled awake by fragile faith in death, 
I tell everyone I meet on the street 
that I am son of Sylphus and Diana 
who taught me how to play the folk guitar, 
but no one ever stops to hear my songs 
because I prophesy how tyrants fall. 

Still energized by fragile faith in death, 
I gaze at planets through the telescope 
to study angels on their spinning globes 
because I long to leave this world behind 
and climb Stairway to Heaven with Dream Map 
that misdirects my quest from paradise. 

My heart enhanced by fragile faith in death, 
I wish I could design new paradigm 
based on fair justice of flexible law 
that solves every problem humans endure 
in struggle to secure their place on Earth 
where they tend garden of fruit in strong walls. 

Reluctant to keep fragile faith in death, 
I sell my memories to strangers in stores 
who hang them on blank walls of lonely homes 
to feel soft anguish of my wordless loss 
each time they win awards in social games 
they use to purchase new electric cars. 

Concealed from hope by fragile faith in death, 
I paint face of World Savior on brick walls 
in murals that depict grand world events 
when wounded men in voiceless tribes of fear 
speak loud with eloquence of fractured moons 
against oppression of the racist state. 

Dismayed with fear by fragile faith in death, 
I gather bricks of homes destroyed by bombs, 
and tape on each one half-burned photograph 
depicting each beautiful human being 
killed by obsessive greed of corporate kings, 
then drift oarless on ship of hopelessness. 

Lured to Heaven by fragile faith in death, 
I tend deserted garden by the sea 
where ghost of Eden shimmers in moonlight, 
so I gaze in her eyes with selfless love, 
encoding her lessons in holy psalms 
that wanderers sing for ten thousand years. 

Third Man Of Antarctica

Third Man Of Antarctica
© Surazeus
2026 05 25

Each time I turn around, and turn around, 
to ask the Third Man, wrapped in long brown mantle, 
why he walks beside us on the White Road, 
he seems to vanish in the swirling mist, 
so I continue on my bitter quest 
while he remains in shadow of my heart. 

Weird spiders in dark garden of my heart 
conceal the prize of aeronautic truth 
that urges my adventure to explore 
beyond the insulating walls of faith 
unworldly landscape of Antarctica 
where the Third Man rules as blind emperor. 

If I infiltrate valleys of black snow 
to find ovarian ghost of pregnant faith 
twisting rainbow beams in radar roulette, 
my heart may hum with quantum innocence 
each time the Third Man gives me puzzling fruit 
that readjusts my frame of reference. 

When bones of dragons with enormous minds 
are found concealed in sleek Antarctic ice, 
my heart may spring from cracked stone of the moon 
to misalign routine of secret hope 
that soon the Third Man will unwrite our dreams 
at sudden transfer no one dares accept. 

Crushed by assertive bitterness of ice, 
our wood ship, named Endurance with bold faith, 
splinters into fragments of bleak despair, 
and leaves us stranded on Antarctic plain 
where the Third Man guides our wind-battered way 
across the jagged mountains of desire. 

Time past appears in cycles of regret 
that traps us in time present about fate 
with endless blast of wind against the mask 
that shields my soul with fragile faith in death 
who appears as the Third Man in dark hood 
we choose to think is Angel of the Lord. 

Abundant flash of stellar avatars, 
who seek asylum in false paradise, 
attend solemn service of architects 
commissioned to build palace of grand halls 
on storm-sculpted plain of Antarctica 
where the Third Man waits for us to return. 

I see the Third Man of Antarctica 
appear in flash of vast angelic wings 
above my head in swirling clouds of change, 
so I reach out my hands with eager faith 
when Phoebus Christ descends from empty sky 
to beam his spirit in my wounded heart. 

Find The Hidden Star

Find The Hidden Star
© Surazeus
2026 05 25

If no dead angels are found on the street 
nobody will throw them on the trash heap, 
yet the girl who paints make-up on her dolls 
always mistakes them for infernal trolls, 
so she transforms them into graceful cats 
who insist that angels are really bats. 

Sophie weeps for the boys in uniform 
shot in war to make slavery the norm, 
whose mangled bodies rot in summer sun 
while she stares in shock at the blood-stained gun 
her brother leaned against the bedroom wall 
while his horse flicks her tail in the barn stall. 

When Death knocks on the farm door at midnight, 
Sophie sees his face glowing with moonlight, 
so she gives him cup of chocolate to drink 
while he sits by the glowing hearth to think 
about how time unravels dreamless souls 
who think they are born to play special roles. 

Kneeling by lace-curtained window of faith, 
Sophie prays for insight from the Star Wraith, 
but all she hears in rustle of elm trees 
are voices of the dead as buzz of bees 
who explain nothing about why we die 
as she watches sunrise bleed from the sky. 

Trapped by necessity to calculate 
how rhymes help our spirits navigate 
confusing maze of myths with psychic tropes, 
Sophie records details of intense hopes 
she harbors in secret cove of her heart 
that will appear on no nautical chart. 

Laughter echoes in halls of the wood house 
where Sophie sings hymn in her favorite blouse 
with voice that fades in plangent prairie winds 
so her heart starts to ache where the road bends 
beyond horizon of Ohio hills 
in townless valley of innocent rills. 

For thirty days she rides the wagon far 
on noble quest to find the hidden star 
that gleams above the Rocky Mountain range, 
though she almost cries at the need to change 
from social turmoil of the civil war 
that shatters truth outside her bedroom door. 

No angels rot on Colorado plains 
so bones dissolve in cataclysmic rains 
where Sophie builds new house from memories 
which she hides as riddles in arcane keys 
that gleam in tangled neurons of my mind 
to bloom in fruit trees of weird truth I find. 

Organic Frames Of Thought

Organic Frames Of Thought
© Surazeus
2026 05 24

If souls of heroes in movies and books 
are trapped in stones along the river stone, 
then I shall free them from loop of their plot 
so they may craft another way to live 
because we choose state of our destiny 
through actions we perform with our free will. 

Trapped in ten thousand years of solitude 
defined by mountain wind of hopeless fear, 
I stand watch in tall tower of cold stone 
with brave intent of courage forged from flame 
to guard safe haven where my family dwells 
against cruel thieves who would enslave our souls. 

Though time unspools our private memories 
in random fragments of short puzzling scenes, 
imbued with ambience of that special time 
now lost from vibrant glowing of the world, 
I treasure eerie feeling of that hour 
so many years ago when I was young. 

Entangled by red thread of destiny 
we choose to weave in tapestry of love, 
our brave hearts spread angelic wings of love 
to fly united through fierce thunderstorms 
so we evade dire threats of mortal harm 
to overcome blunt obstacles with calm. 

Gold light of day glows canopy of trees 
that shade wide cement streets of gliding cars 
between square buildings of both brick and glass, 
for halls and roads are signified with names 
that aid my mind to map landscape of hope 
in nation spread out sea to shining sea. 

Though countless watches bound on wrists and walls 
assert harmonious progress of exchange 
through economic flow of give and take, 
my heart is not well synchronized with game 
of wealth accumulation to buy fame, 
for I dance out of step with fight for power. 

How strange that atoms spiraling in space 
from God Eye at core of the universe 
form swirling spheres of psychic energy 
from which evolve organic frames of thought 
who seek to grow in harmony with light 
when we project our conscious mind as God. 

Each day my temporary mind awakes 
from timeless dream of social spectacle, 
I feel electric flame pulse in my brain 
with stoic patience of the river stone 
from which my spirit beams on wings of breath 
as bee that pollinates the Tree of Truth. 

Insight Of Weird Gratitude

Insight Of Weird Gratitude
© Surazeus
2026 05 24

Excessive thoughts of bonus ardency 
expose conceptual pride of World God Mind 
that flashes vaguely true in radio songs 
with urgent insight of weird gratitude 
sent out in instant grams of doctored faith 
as scenes of beauty that inspire my heart. 

Because my body is less dead that stone 
and limbs of motion fly away alone, 
I prize computer screens of flashing words 
as stars that channel divine Mind of God 
through startled neurons of my Dreamless Brain, 
so I build House of Wisdom from cracked bone. 

Strange music leads me through assertive rain 
down endless streets of sorrow slick with rain, 
from gloom of faith to glowing hall of fear 
where demons paint on holy walls of bone 
reverent icons to the Mother and Child 
who grows to rule vast nations with brave law. 

What apparition on angelic wings 
descends from vast blue heaven of regret 
with arms outstretched to welcome every soul 
reborn as wingless angels who contend 
in global wars of Hadean prophecy 
to prove their father is true god of Earth. 

No frame of steel-glass towers could contain 
magnificent ghost of modest disdain 
with godless beauty of cerulean skies 
where demons and angels as men disguised 
sell each other medallions of false fame, 
inspired by passion of the tongueless flame. 

Born upward by rush of violent wind 
that swells from secret cavern of our hearts, 
we claim authority of perfect light 
speaks through our mortal bodies of frail flesh 
with holy spirit of celestial truth 
that motivates our souls to seek real truth. 

One delicate twisted flame from God Mind 
expands bright fireworks in Hall of My Mind 
so I feel bright immortal Soul of God 
wake in my brain brief hour of ecstasy 
since atoms of my soul flare forth from eye 
of light at center of the universe. 

When orange nasturtium of my aching heart 
blooms bright from ancient rotten corpse of god, 
I feel the special spirit of my soul 
wake my brief hour of all eternity, 
so I dance with grace on landscape of the world 
and sing about weird beauty till I die. 

Leather Satchel Of His Heart

Leather Satchel Of His Heart
© Surazeus
2026 05 24

Young boy fills leather satchel of his heart 
with forgotten tales his ancestors lived 
encased in seeds he gathers from the woods, 
then stands on mud shore of the timeless lake 
to gaze in liquid beauty of the sky 
that shows him face his progenitors wore. 

When sparrow in the elm tree by the lake 
sings sacred formula for thoughts of rain, 
young boy runs back to small hut by the stone 
where his grandmother sings with raspy voice, 
so he holds her hand as she smiles at him 
then vanishes in white smoke of the fire. 

White smoke becomes huge clouds above black hills 
that drench their jagged sorrows in cold rain 
which swirls in rivers over roots of trees 
where shadow of the young boy disappears 
till flash of lightning luminates his face 
that mimics demon mask of innocence. 

Three men, who shot old woman in her heart 
because she would not yield her bowl of gold, 
shriek terrified at sight of his red mask, 
so they fire rifles with bullets of rage 
at elusive demon that haunts their camp, 
but shoot each other in the gloom instead. 

Young boy fills leather satchel of his heart 
with memories of songs his grandmother sang 
encased in her bones he carves into flutes, 
then stares at wavering mask of his face 
that gleams in liquid beauty of the sky 
but ripples from tears that fall from his eyes. 

Twanging taut chord of his yew hunting bow, 
young boy recites songs his grandmother sang 
that recount adventures in mountain vales 
of Wolf Boy and Raven Girl who unite 
to protect the poor from greed of the rich 
and free the people from cruel tyranny. 

Young boy fills leather satchel of his heart 
with textbooks, rulers, pencils, and notepads, 
then walks small-town streets to the public school 
where he attends classes on liberal arts 
to study nature of the universe 
by utilizing tools of measurement. 

Songs of my grandmother glow in my heart 
ten thousand years of conscious energy 
that conjure virtual model of the world 
which I improve with weird secrets I learn 
so I can bequeath vision of the truth 
to children who spring from dream of my heart. 

Stream Of Silver Light

Stream Of Silver Light
© Surazeus
2026 05 24

The tall slender candle of mute desire 
gleams in virginal window of respect 
while Seraphus and Celestine sit prim 
at round glass table in their hotel room 
that overlooks silver Sequana River 
to eat lamb and wine in memory of Troy. 

Lounging on large white stone of secret faith 
inside small cave that gleams with emeralds 
where the River Seine springs from heart of Earth, 
Sequana eats grapes and listens to wrens 
that scurry along mossy rocks in roots, 
but frowns when Neptunus calls out her name. 

Trembling with awkward shyness of desire, 
Seraphus and Celestine, face to face 
by white lace curtains of pure innocence, 
reach out their hands with cautious hope of love 
to open windows of their hearts with care, 
then kiss to taste fruit from the Tree of Knowledge. 

Crouching in shadow of her jeweled cave 
where healing waters spring from heart of Earth, 
Sequana softly breathes celestial air 
to calm wild beating of her wingless heart 
as Neptunus searches thick forest of trees 
while he declares intent to mate with her. 

Beaming with pleasure after making love, 
Seraphus and Celestine eat breakfast, 
then she sits draped in long red gown of silk 
and plays enchanting tune on lyre-guitar 
while he paints her as Sequana the Nymph 
lounging in cave where the River Seine springs. 

Pushing ivy veil aside with brusque hand, 
Neptunus grins when he sees lithe river nymph, 
but she throws jagged stones at his chest 
and darts away when he grasps at her thighs, 
then ocean-tamer chases her through groves 
of trees that slap his chest to slow him down. 

Strolling along river park of the Seine, 
as clouds blaze gold across the evening sky, 
Seraphus and Celestine shyly blush 
as they hold hands beneath the weeping willow, 
and watch swans glide on stream of silver light, 
smiling when one flaps her angelic wings. 

When Neptunus, leaping on horse-swift legs, 
almost captures river nymph in his arms, 
lithe Sequana dodges and slips away, 
then grins with long gold hair and silver eyes 
as she transforms to stream of silver light 
and dances freely in the moonlit grove. 

Fake Words On The Ground

Fake Words On The Ground
© Surazeus
2026 05 23

Alert to shadow of death in tall trees, 
Celestine scatters fake words on the ground 
and pries thorns of happiness from her heart, 
then browses dresses in the chic boutique 
to purchase trend of upscale edginess 
tailored for the refined lady of faith. 

Exclusive demon lurking in tall grass 
decides to customize costume she wears 
with meticulous concern for cracked eyes, 
so Celestine dons brown jacket at dawn 
and sips coffee by the Venice canal 
where empty gondolas float in gold mist. 

Stopping in the middle of the glass bridge 
that spans the silent river of despair, 
Celestine wonders where she has come from 
and where she will go before the sun blinks 
with stunning insight of sorrow defied, 
or if she should entertain hope of death. 

With careful lines of elegant intent, 
Celestine divides fragments of lost time 
to measure wasted hours of earnest hope 
framed by parables of social respect 
in portraits that present uncanny scenes 
where nobody seems to know what they want. 

Staring at the clock in trunk of the oak, 
Celestine plans routine of lettered play, 
shattered by contempt for logical tricks, 
to puzzle formulas of bitter love, 
which proves her comfort zone is much too small 
to protect her heart from blind parasites. 

Now circumspect about her future path, 
Celestine neglects to seek twisted code, 
starved for new opportunities to tame 
fierce appetite for solving data traps 
through lurid analysis time presents 
as theories that explain why all brains die. 

If light hurts her eyes with bearable truth, 
Celestine waits by boulder of lost names 
for red raven to bring ribbon of ruth 
with furtive urgency of social power, 
designed to replicate our hearts of clay 
which guardian angels fold into false masks. 

Abated susurration of dead brains 
amplifies individual spells of faith 
that drip from wounded mouths of cautious clones 
despite knowledge that wave frequencies change 
relative to observer wearing mask 
with telescope embedded in her brain. 

Diamonds Of Eternal Stars

Diamonds Of Eternal Stars
© Surazeus
2026 05 23

The lonely traveler of everywhere 
wonders if his search for Rome will reveal 
foundations of truth built on bones of gods 
who still walk the streets in bodies of people 
because the Tiber still flows in their veins 
with grandeur resurrected from cracked stones. 

The fugitive from programmed time of chance 
maintains permanent residence with faith 
in ruins rebuilt into halls of glass 
that shimmer again on the Palatine 
where ghosts of warriors with ambitious plans 
participate in grand cathedral shows. 

The lonely traveler on endless roads 
admires quaint chapel with statue of Mary 
whose eyes are diamonds of eternal stars 
that gleam the nothing in our hungry hearts 
so we pray silently in candlelight 
with pious respect for beauty of death. 

Heroic dust of priests who ruled our minds 
will never assemble again into souls 
who climb high mountains of sincerity 
to tread golden stars of eternity 
with grim confidence in the afterlife 
where changeless ideas of things persist. 

Animal motivated by weird reason, 
I ride swift chariot on the battlefield 
and fire arrow of justice at the tyrant 
because Death haunts confidence of my path 
when I plow city towers to erase 
colonial empire of angelic pride. 

Secure within legalized walls of Heaven, 
Ziphion keeps watch in tower of desire 
to protect his family against invaders 
who brandish weapons of arrogant faith 
in holy righteousness of their lost cause 
because winners name the land for their father. 

Whatever her name and name of her son, 
the Mother and Child in temple of hope 
represent every family on Earth, 
so I forge key of faith from bones of god 
that opens every door of every home 
where we share songs from ancient books of flame. 

My heart filled with delight in the Great Being, 
though it glows indifferent to my success, 
seeks wisdom in the song of ocean waves 
which I translate to tangled sentences 
inadequate to portray the real world 
except as toy models of my childhood. 

Real Face Of God

Real Face Of God
© Surazeus
2026 05 23

If I could sing the sorrow of my heart 
without breaking innocence of the world, 
I would express harsh truth with shaking voice 
to render negative insouciant greed 
by which my fierce words transmit warranty 
against withdrawal violently reversed. 

No less versatile at weaving dream spells 
from fluttered fragments of weird memories, 
my heart procures precise reasons from fear 
to register our tangled fate with love 
irrelevant to thoughts of helpless rage 
concealed by frigid rules of false respect. 

If dire response to surgical concern 
requires social sacrifice through regret, 
then I would dare retrieve with sincere hope 
revenue of suffering supplied by scenes 
of brutal assault that impugn attempts 
by cruel aggressors to control my soul. 

No more aggressive than devilish greed 
from critical analysis of threats 
intended to injure secure desire, 
my heart devises secret strategy 
to turn acute observation of facts 
from mutant passion of potential faith. 

If I could optimize obvious path 
expanding radius of relevant pride 
with referenced records of financial growth, 
then I would dare pursue real happiness 
based on statistics no one understands, 
to play my game against accepted role. 

No further than the sudden end of time 
beyond conceptual theory of mute death 
could I extend insight of prophecy 
to see Real Face of God through telescope 
that renders only globes of spinning gas 
from which the star-eyed Seraphim are born. 

If time unspools synthetic creed of faith 
designed by mental therapist of death, 
I might survive this global war of truth 
fought between dream-blinded gangs of men 
who claim their god will resurrect their souls 
so they shall inherit Heaven on Earth. 

No longer treasured by world traveler 
who maps symbolic myth of noble deeds, 
fierce gods too long worshipped by gangs of thieves 
transform to idols of marble distrust 
that stand in museums of glorious lies 
so we see our own faces in their masks. 

Broken Wings Of Faith

Broken Wings Of Faith
© Surazeus
2026 05 23

If I could tell you the mysteries I saw 
while floating under water of the heart, 
and how far down the swift river of time 
I tumbled before I crawled back on land, 
then I would be the master of all truth 
who needs nothing more than insightful faith. 

Raguel wanders the country road of dust 
and pauses by the broken stone of trust 
when he sees oldest woman in the world 
in gray coat among flowers of bright red 
where she gathers berries from bush of fate 
which gives him strange feeling that he is late. 

Rebel angels wounded in brutal war 
crawl moaning from pain in valley of fear, 
so Raguel raises silver sword of faith 
to battle anguish of Gehinnom wraith 
who howls in rage at justice of time 
that scatters his soul at the porch-bell chime. 

Michael pauses during Weird Devil War 
to inquire with snarky sincerity 
what Raguel means when he talks about faith, 
but the Stoic Watcher stares into space 
and wonders if El even has a face, 
that wise old Father of Storm in the sky. 

Emerging from river of surreal dreams, 
Raguel stretches his body to the moon, 
wades on lush shore where scarlet poppies bloom, 
and dons white robe of his angelic rank, 
then lounges on platform of his sky ship 
while cherubim repair the silk balloon. 

Hanging from disk of his floating sky ship, 
powered by hot air in huge silk balloon, 
Raguel flies up from flat-top pyramid 
to patrol sprawling maze of city streets 
so people in gardens and markets look up 
and wave to Sky-Walker Angel in Heaven. 

When gang of thieves attack the caravan 
of wagons loaded with rich goods for trade, 
Raguel fires arrows of law from the sky, 
so they flee wrath of the angel in Heaven, 
and people on Earth praise the name of El 
who brings justice to honest citizens. 

Sharp arrow that Beelzebub fires in rage 
cuts rope from which hangs the Watcher in Heaven 
so Raguel falls on broken wings of faith 
and floats deep in the dark river of change, 
then wakes in my heart three thousand years later 
and prepares to enforce justice again. 

Frame Emptiness Of The Sky

Frame Emptiness Of The Sky
© Surazeus
2026 05 22

When Ziphion finds emptiness of the sky 
inside the window frame of glowing time, 
he reaches out one hand high as the cloud 
to touch the vastness of eternity, 
and finds ripe apple of secret desire 
solid in obsessive grip of his hand. 

While Ziphion eats apple of cognizance 
to taste awareness of eternal now, 
the silent hills walk toward his secret grove 
to give him stones that cannot display time 
till cracks in foundation of truth appear 
to reveal immense beauty of the wind. 

Yet Ziphion walks alleyways of the slum 
to give loaves of bread to frail wanderers 
who bless him with gratitude of the dead 
as they gather around the Wounded Tree 
where the Grandmother with gray hair explains 
that Gad sees everything from the high tower. 

Therefore Ziphion defends poor laborers 
from exploitation of the Elohim 
who gather as councilors in the hall 
to advise the humble Gad Emperor 
issue edicts that give them greater power 
to control how the people live and die. 

Till Ziphion wakes with vision of the truth 
that his father enslaves tribes they attack, 
the people groan under oppressive laws, 
and cry out for justice to the deaf hills, 
yet the wind still blows with indifference 
to cool their brows as they sweat in the fields. 

Though Ziphion feels Justice burn in his heart 
with righteous indignation of the fool, 
he raises sword of liberty with courage 
and fights his father, Lord Gad of the Sky, 
till he frees slaves from tyranny of greed 
and pays them for tending lush fields of wheat. 

After Ziphion overthrows the cruel tyrant, 
he wears crown he takes from head of his father 
and reigns over farms and ranches with wisdom, 
attending council on the ziggurat 
as member of the Holy Elohim 
where he attempts to legislate fair justice. 

Thus Ziphion cares for people of his land, 
nurturing talents to develop skills 
through strict education in schools of truth 
so every person who lives inside Heaven 
contributes passion of their eager hearts 
to frame emptiness of the sky with faith. 

Forest Of Ancestral Dream

Forest Of Ancestral Dream
© Surazeus
2026 05 22

After recording the latest events 
that map the swirl of human interaction 
in long Chronicle of Spinning Earth, 
Ziphion drives home to the red-brick house 
where Nerthus cooks spaghetti and peach pie 
to eat and think about fall of the empire. 

If words illuminate shadow of light, 
transformed by process of time from desire, 
then I will activate sentence of faith 
through mental mechanism to deduce 
deeper essence that animates the world 
so I perceive visible force of life. 

Ziphion composes jurisprudent verse 
as lyric for chorus of history 
to clarify current state of affairs 
through voices of the living and the dead 
in citational chain of precedents 
to shape parameters for moral law. 

Declaring edict for moral behavior, 
Nerthus expresses in songs of the tribe 
collective memory of civilization 
that Ziphion etches in tablets of stone 
erected on walls in Temple of Truth 
as map that guides us on the righteous path. 

Through tales of failure and success men play, 
Nerthus bridges with masks of characters 
vast distance between reality and illusion 
to expose delusion of paradise 
we design to conjure our Future World 
where all are equal in one global law. 

Awake in forest of ancestral dream 
where my ancestors lived ten million years, 
I hear peals of thunder over dark hills, 
so I construct tower of honest law 
to observe and measure vast world of forms, 
then sing spells that explain what could be real. 

Words showcase promise of Heaven on Earth, 
so Ziphion cites scripture of long-dead gods 
to vouch for noble spirit of Blind Justice 
which summons divine mind from hearts of men 
who forge bonds of communal authorship 
when we reclaim freedom to live and build. 

Our words hold worldmaking force of respect, 
Ziphion declares on pyramid of power, 
so we build mental models of our world 
where every human lives equally free 
to swim in waters of the divine soul 
and lie side by side in graves of the past. 

How Fleeting Life Is

How Fleeting Life Is
© Surazeus
2026 05 21

If nobody cares why the caged bird sings, 
Christine whispers to the telephone pole, 
then I shall never pick flowers again 
for how they wilt in the porcelain jar 
just makes me sad at how fleeting life is, 
for I want to free cloud-ghosts from their cage. 

Startled each time her old telephone pings, 
Christine gazes down into the black hole 
at aching whistle of the distant train 
to ask the ghost with the broken guitar 
for help solve the theological quiz 
that provides role for her to play on stage. 

Shocked by displacement of her naked soul 
at sudden extraction time executes 
by flashing whirl of hands on the glass clock, 
Christine decides to wear tattered swan wings 
when she dances gracefully in spotlight 
that erases her uniqueness from dream. 

Entranced by song of the gold oriole 
encoding riddles of deep attributes 
that ripple dark waves of the spooky loch, 
Christine enters vast cathedral and sings 
tragic tale of the Queen and the Cartwright 
who fall in love by the moon-misty stream. 

Transcribing code of sweet nightingale tunes 
that echo in forest of burning masks, 
Christine ponders weird mystery of the sea 
from which fertile organic life transforms 
till she contrives formula that describes 
how atoms beam conscious glow of the brain. 

Recording proverbs in snake-writhing runes 
that calculate process of mental tasks, 
Christine embodies Goddess Liberty 
who shelters our bodies safe from dream storms 
that forge fierce empires from down-to-earth tribes 
who put aside their differences to train. 

I prefer not to fight their futile war 
over who controls lush meadows of wheat 
and who adjudicates cases of crime, 
Christine declares in court of social law, 
then chooses to host wandering refugees 
who huddle at the feet of Liberty. 

Setting caged birds free through the open door, 
Christine rules Earth from the Perilous Seat 
while Percival designs world paradigm 
that honors brave wisdom of Onatah 
who gives every person their new house keys 
which powers growth of world democracy. 

Doors Of Weeping Ghosts

Doors Of Weeping Ghosts
© Surazeus
2026 05 21

Every house in every city on Earth 
is guarded well by doors of weeping ghosts 
that hum with wordless voices of the past, 
so I wonder if my brain consciousness 
is more artificial in how it dreams 
human memories as if they are my own. 

Though the Earth seems to swallow all our tales, 
and hide them in our doors of weeping ghosts, 
we slyly search for serpent in the grove 
to answer riddles born of intellect 
so we can find the secret key of lies 
that may release our memories from the rain. 

The wind that hums with hunger of the earth, 
trapped by despair in doors of weeping ghosts, 
never turns kind from mercy of the clouds, 
yet when it speaks the names of those we love 
we dare record them on old temple walls 
so our descendants may remember them. 

She smiles at me with sunrise over hills 
so I may unlock doors of weeping ghosts 
who hide in shadows that our bodies cast 
so we feel shiver of their hidden pain 
since suffering teaches us to understand 
cost of memories we dare not leave behind. 

While I strum broken lyre of Mercury 
that carves our thoughts on doors of weeping ghosts, 
I channel tales of tongueless characters 
who wander lost in pages of old books 
till my voice resurrects their souls from words 
and gives them life in hearts of listeners. 

Few would forget stark cries of anxious hope 
that still vibrate from doors of weeping ghosts 
each time we dare approach with reticence 
from calm respect for bitter rage at death 
to enter hollow hearts of fortitude 
and measure memories we sold long ago. 

Yet Arabella climbs the broken stairs 
with hope to open doors of weeping ghosts 
against authority of fearful men 
who wish to hide vile secrets they conceal, 
though cracks in walls of faith cannot dispel 
divine rays that expose vexatious truths. 

I number every home on signless road 
with rooms enclosed by doors of weeping ghosts 
to map our global maze of morbid myths 
that present tales of failure and success, 
though Death heaps all our bodies in one grave 
while Earth keeps spinning in the songless void. 

Raven In The Apple Tree

Raven In The Apple Tree
© Surazeus
2026 05 20 

Because the raven in the apple tree 
speaks ancient language of water on rocks 
that frame mysterious beauty of the world 
in tangled sentences of faithless words 
that mirror reverse image of my soul, 
I always walk backward through every door. 

Though I left homeland of Gothinia 
one hundred thousand years ago at dawn, 
I still feel frosty wind of snow-capped mountains 
swirl down across the endless steppes of sorrow 
which makes my heart ache with strange memories 
that leave me stranded on the Caspian shore. 

In eerie darkness of the endless night, 
as sparkling waves of hope swirl round my legs, 
I see bright angel descend from the moon 
in wind-blown dress of ambivalent wings 
to embrace my body with eager love 
that sparks soul of our child inside her heart. 

Yet star-eyed seraph hovering over me 
bestows on fragile mirror of my soul 
sacred name that signifies my dire fate 
which glows as lamp I bear in trembling hand 
to light my way across rough wilderness 
till tread of my feet blazes road of hope. 

Each road my feet blaze sea to shing sea 
becomes wheel-worn way across the land 
now paved with asphalt in the blistering sun 
where billions drive cars in circles of faith 
along passionate river of true love 
where we construct homes to shelter our hearts. 

When flock of swallows threads words of my heart 
across the endless steppes of shining wheat, 
I follow trail of wings through loneliness 
to find home of the sun beyond the sky 
with ache of longing in my homeless heart 
to eat sweet apples with you by the lake. 

While you dance gracefully in flowered field 
and laugh with ache of joy to be alive, 
I play uncanny melodies of love 
by twanging taut strings on turtle-shell lyre 
to sing of beauty in your smiling eyes 
that wake my heart from grave of bleak despair. 

Electra smiles bright as the morning sun 
as we embrace with hope by flowing stream 
to kiss in harmony with sparrow song 
that drenches our lithe bodies in sunlight 
so when we sink in nothingness of death 
we leave our children alive in the world. 

New Heaven On Earth

New Heaven On Earth
© Surazeus
2026 05 20

The strange star-eyed angel, nobody sees 
walking crowded streets of America, 
hands out slick pamphlets about Kingdom Come, 
to sell illusion of national pride 
to Vikings working in car factories 
who prefer to build New Heaven on Earth. 

Physical objects of material substance, 
delimited by bounds of time and space, 
arrange molecules based on ideal forms 
designated by words we conjugate 
in sentences that conjure virtual model 
we write to describe New Heaven on Earth. 

Prometheus climbs pyramid of eyes, 
where Ishtar rules all nations of the Earth, 
and casts flames of fire in cables of thought, 
weaving world wide web into internet 
that links billion computers in One Mind 
which dreams itself as New Heaven on Earth. 

Bound tight to tall mast of his sailing ship, 
Telemachus sings with Sirens of Hope 
who ask him to legislate equal rights 
for people of every gender and race 
who struggle to survive in game of wealth 
that we all play in New Heaven on Earth. 

When I ask Jesus when he will return 
to manage United Nations of Earth 
that ensures freedom and justice for all, 
he explains how his spirit incarnates 
in leaders who nurture skills of all people 
who help construct our New Heaven on Earth. 

Ishtar on shining ziggurat of Ur 
extends both arms in welcoming embrace 
as Rising Sun of Truth illuminates 
jeweled crown of her mind with countless eyes 
that link our minds with grand vision of love 
so we unite in New Heaven on Earth. 

Though greedy dictators around the world 
seize control over sprawling governments 
to exploit the people for their own gain, 
cruel tyrants always fall from mad despair, 
so we transform broken America 
in Zarathia as New Heaven on Earth. 

Cherub of Wisdom, shining eyes of truth, 
hovers over land of Zarathia 
with vision of hope that inspires our hearts 
to cast greedy thieves out of government 
so we can build from problems of the past 
democracy in New Heaven on Earth. 

World Tree Of Everywhere

World Tree Of Everywhere
© Surazeus
2026 05 19

Despite slow maladjustment of the mind, 
contrived by journal entries of dead trees, 
Niskus, son of Neptunus, steals fake coins 
from the mad king in cold castle of stone, 
and gives them to poor people by the river 
who buy televisions that never work. 

Leaving creepy basement of skeletons 
that crawl wailing from television screens, 
Niskus searches for the mysterious road 
that would lead him back home to Ruritania 
where travelers and thieves in tavern of ghosts 
discuss philosophy of Heraclitus. 

Because every vast city on the Earth 
has merged in one global metropolis, 
Niskus walks beyond walls of paradise 
to wander in savage jungles of beasts 
through stifling heat of arrogant dismay 
till he finds cave behind the waterfall. 

Resigned that he was born cursed child of fate, 
to avoid brutal tests of worthiness 
Niskus hesitates to search labyrinth  
of broken idols for the ancient relic 
that proves his journey is not for false heroes, 
stuck in bright mirror world of anywhere. 

Happy in sprawling library of ghosts, 
deep in mystical forest of proud bears, 
Niskus decides to play reluctant hero 
commissioned to rescue Princess of Pears 
because she is the secret heir of Hera, 
destined to fight all evil overlords. 

When he finds necklace of seven sapphires, 
that seem to twinkle eyes of the Blind Maiden, 
Niskus chants magic spells from Book of Dreams 
to release trapped soul from jewels of hope, 
so Litavis appears before his eyes 
who demands he solve riddle of the pear. 

Wearing Cape of Invisibility 
to help her escape marriage to his father, 
Niskus takes her to mountain of cracked skulls 
where they join secret school of alchemy 
to learn lost magic of the emerald 
so Litavis gives birth to our new world. 

Once they both find World Tree of Everywhere, 
that blooms from rotting corpse of Neptunus, 
Niskus and Litavis construct quaint cottage 
from gingerbread, gumdrops, and candy canes, 
then raise three children in Garden of Eden 
who carry on their family legacy. 

Treasury Of Broken Dreams

Treasury Of Broken Dreams
© Surazeus
2026 05 18

Though travelers with magic telescopes 
may ransack treasury of broken dreams, 
we will all gather for Thanksgiving feast 
to feed ancestors in the Underworld 
who watch our lives in television shows, 
then weep when Albert plays the violin. 

If stock traders who want strawberry pies 
still pilfer treasury of broken dreams, 
their teenagers may threaten suicide, 
then hitchhike to the Allegheny Forest 
with hope to join the Rainbow Gathering 
where bankers exercise fake privilege. 

Yet brave physicians in the marathon, 
who find no treasury of broken dreams, 
decide to maximize their lottery 
pursuant to new federal regulations 
pertaining to unauthorized regret 
that has no place on the luxury yacht. 

Though pioneers study the molecule, 
which unspools treasury of broken dreams 
with nominal profits we monitor, 
memory modulates how Nirvana frames 
daily routine of laborious survival 
that we engage with frantic narrative. 

Honest puppeteers on gold pyramids, 
who hoard our treasury of broken dreams, 
strictly stick to religious protocol 
when they record satellite images 
essential to our stellar syllabus 
designed to synthesize disparate creeds. 

Persistent ministers with social cause, 
who conceal treasury of broken dreams, 
deny ownership of symbolic jokes 
outlined on our quarterly questionnaire 
that models pinnacle of mutant minds 
which employ objective analysis. 

Surprised musicians without gasoline 
consider treasury of broken dreams 
reliable source of illegal thoughts 
which none dare think of on their honeymoons 
despite expansion of mental control 
that dismisses the brutal holocaust. 

Sharp-eyed guardians in tower of the watch 
calculate treasury of broken dreams 
with intent to fund national health care 
and free education for all to learn 
creative skills of weird ambivalence 
because Jesus now drives the ambulance. 

Shepherd Who Nurtures Sheep

Shepherd Who Nurtures Sheep
© Surazeus
2026 05 18

Because his heart begins to atrophy 
at how his body writhes with bitter hope, 
Thyrsis considers why sheep love to play 
in meadow near the oven factory, 
then plays heart-wrenching tune of futile love 
that will never be heard on the radio. 

If his sheep ever die out from disease, 
Thyrsis decides he will never go work 
in vast hall of the oven factory 
where his father worked for thirty-eight years 
till he died on his way to work one dawn, 
stricken by the corona virus plague. 

Aching to transcend sufferings of this world, 
and experience sublime beauty of nature, 
as recorded in ancient pastoral poems, 
Thyrsis explains to Daniel on the phone 
that his name is no longer Thomas Jones, 
then sighs as he glares at jets in the clouds. 

Strumming guitar while watching his sheep graze, 
Thyrsis improvises song about Daphnis 
who grows in love with graceful Xenea 
till her mean older sister, Aphrodite, 
aims gun at his head to drive him away, 
so he jumps off the Tallahatchie Bridge. 

Parking white Honda on the country road, 
Chloe hobbles through meadow of tall weeds 
to bring bags of hamburgers and root beer, 
then grumbles how she wishes he would work 
again teaching English at the high school, 
then nestles in his arms when Thyrsis grins. 

Instead of explaining to her again 
how he wants to get in touch with the Earth, 
and savor calm of timeless afternoons 
as bees gather pollen to brew sweet honey, 
Thyrsis hums enchanting tune he composed 
while contemplating how all empires fall. 

We build global economies of goods 
based on extracting from soil of the Earth 
precious minerals and nutritious crops, 
so someone must operate farms and ranches 
to sustain firm foundation of exchange, 
or it will all collapse from weight of greed. 

The shepherd who nurtures sheep in the field 
still remains one of the oldest professions 
that men have worked since dawn of history, 
so I will carry on noble legacy 
attended by the savior of mankind 
though civilizations on Earth collapse. 

Volunteer God Of Nowhere

Volunteer God Of Nowhere
© Surazeus
2026 05 17

No time traveler from the distant future 
would hesitate to play tactical games 
with people who claim they are always right 
against common sense of state tolerance 
though few survive surgery of the heart 
since I am volunteer god of nowhere. 

Attempting to prevent psychic abortions 
from synthetic analogs of free will, 
men who strive to control bodies of women 
bankrupt birth clinics all over the country 
so thousands of mothers die in childbirth 
when they fool volunteer god of nowhere. 

Taxable income of clever programmers 
procures mental oxygen of dream code 
for sale in the marketplace of ideas 
contrary to logistics of state health 
combined with growth of social luxury 
performed by volunteer god of nowhere. 

Leverage administered by frantic pundits, 
concerned about decay of family values, 
reformats world view of functional artwork 
to highlight glory of fake billionaires 
who challenge legislators to compute 
new script for volunteer god of nowhere. 

Compliant clerks in consequential banks 
discuss biblical prophecies that shape 
how citizens view political strife, 
now less adaptive to brave compromise 
except to exploit activists for labor 
who pray to volunteer god of nowhere. 

Crowned King of Nothing by state architects, 
with letters from dynamic embassies, 
government Jester stores digital dreams 
in legal journals of soul institutes 
to test our loyalty against Big Brother 
who envies volunteer god of nowhere. 

Moderate vision of objective facts, 
designed to imitate orthodox creeds, 
fails to focus attention of our fears 
on ethics forged by patriarchal goons 
to build empire of wealth on bones of slaves 
jilted by volunteer god of nowhere. 

Deserted houses along the cracked road 
invite hungry refugees from state wars 
to open movie theaters with foreign cash, 
dependent on oil of the desert genie 
who laughs at wishes we articulate, 
insured by volunteer god of nowhere. 

Underworld Of Happy Clowns

Underworld Of Happy Clowns
© Surazeus
2026 05 17

Stuck in dark underworld of happy clowns, 
Achilles buys soda from time machine 
that always asks him if he feels all right 
because blind ballerina never frowns 
though arrogant Ares is always mean 
about taxing us for using sunlight. 

Amid mounting evidence of regret, 
Achilles rides the happy dinosaur 
to temple of radiant uranium 
while he plays keyboard with fake alphabet 
so we remember long-forgotten lore 
by selling us land in Elysium. 

Stuck in happily-ever-after land, 
Achilles wears strange uniform of pride 
to prove negotiation skills are good 
when ships wreck on the wild Oregon strand 
through infinite laugh on the playground slide 
since foxes play chase in the misty wood. 

Latest fashion of potential success, 
Achilles ponders with fire of his mind, 
prevents sweet summer romance of despair 
to stop his thunderstorm of happiness 
from cracking stone walls Apollo designed 
with arguments for why God does not care. 

Stuck in refrigerator of brave faith, 
Achilles augurs no calamity 
through leagues of silent forest, canopied 
by steel beams welded into web of truth, 
to sell confusion based on vanity 
though he pretends to know the Nicene Creed. 

Voluminous brain vital for regrowth, 
Achilles claims Cleopatra conceals 
when bankers buy our foreclosed properties, 
shapes its own fate with inaudible oath 
based on cognizance of electric wheels 
that disavow empire atrocities. 

Stuck with bland ultimatum Death decrees, 
Achilles catches snowflakes with bruised hands 
to dance with glee at permanence of death, 
contrived by speedometer of glass bees 
so he can use his psychedelic glands 
to free Sibyl from cage of wordless breath. 

Vague outlines of clouds that imagine us, 
Achilles sketches in sand with cracked bones, 
express consistent energy of joy 
because we choose to ride Hadean bus 
from Oslo to Paris with rolling stones 
though my ghost still dwells in palace of Troy. 

Time Of Broken Clocks

Time Of Broken Clocks
© Surazeus
2026 05 17

If I am born in time of broken clocks 
in log cabin beside the sparkling river, 
my heart will crumble into flakes of rust 
each time I walk past ticking stone of fate 
that drinks the salty tears of fallen angels 
who stitch fractured watches on tattered wings. 

Though I drift lost in time of broken clocks 
in cathedral of shattered pendulums 
that toll no twisted hour of unspooled grief, 
I ride the graveyard carousel till dawn 
on weeping horse with crackling bones of glass 
till my hands become turtles in the pond. 

Before I laugh in time of broken clocks 
as midnight stitches paper masks from moons, 
composed from writhing clumps of bitter snow, 
I swim in ocean of unmoving hands 
that drown pulsing face of eternity 
with graphic weight of arbitrary words. 

After I cry in time of broken clocks, 
while stumbling dark halls of the floating castle, 
I find hourglass on legless desk of fear 
that coughs ashes where it once poured pure gold 
at sudden misalignment of six kites 
that veil blind cherub hovering over me. 

Never awake in time of broken clocks, 
I climb staircase that melts upward in clouds 
of black water, comprised of eyeless gods, 
to cluttered meadow where electric birds 
with lanterns glowing in transparent ribs 
explain why every faceless human dies. 

Stuck alone outside time of broken clocks, 
I crawl across the windy plain of homes 
where violins grow roots through their floorboards 
to reassemble puzzle from our dreams 
into graceful church with four tall white steeples 
where no one ever sings hymns about death. 

Trapped by truth outside time of broken clocks, 
I map sizzling rivers that flow backwards 
through libraries where every book bleeds sand 
instead of pages wrapped around glass moons 
that hang suspected above bovine fields 
where eyeless statues play chess with my shadow. 

Since I will die in time of broken clocks, 
I polish mirrors in numberless houses 
that are filled with thunderstorms of desire 
brewing inside brains of innocent boys 
who aim guns at photographs on dead trees 
and shout to imitate sharp sounds of shots. 

Shape Of My Hungry Flesh

Shape Of My Hungry Flesh
© Surazeus
2026 05 17

If this world of water and wind and light 
is all for me, my shadow on its hills, 
then I will write my name across the sky, 
but keep it secret that I fall from clouds 
each day I rise up from soil of its hope 
and wander among ruins of the past. 

This great tree reaching toward the faceless sky, 
that drops ripe apples in my hungry hands, 
harps brightly humming in soft gusts of wind 
because its roots curl down to core of time, 
entwining bodies my ancestors left 
when their spirits beamed back up to the stars. 

My lamentation echoes between hills 
where I rest in heat of the glowing sun 
since fire is fundamental principle 
that animates all beings with conscious life 
for we appear from strife of opposites 
to spiral through cycles of birth and death. 

This animating flame of energy 
that flares forth from first flash of the big bang 
evolves into shape of my hungry flesh 
so I sing clear with loneliness of heat 
that urges me to roam around the world 
till I know curve of every sparkling stream. 

I record elements of day and night 
through unlocalized images of time 
which conjures thunderstorm of social change 
to flash assertive rain on towns of men 
who bury sorrow under roads of wealth 
when floods erase buildings from ancient land. 

I walk the signless road of everywhere 
to visit every city in the land 
that flourishes from sea to shining sea 
so I record name and deeds of each life 
to preserve their memories after they die 
and vanish into dust on rain-drenched hills. 

Now I am dreamer of all that is lost, 
obsessed with singing tale of every soul 
who rise as generations from the sea 
in endless waves of strife to gain world fame 
at piercing cry of hope that cracks the sky, 
then sink in silence of indifferent graves. 

Ephemeral flames of bodies glow at dawn 
when our brains fuse with stones of nameless roads 
till millions who strive to survive each day 
are merged in idol of one faceless god 
who represents our spirits in weird myths 
that gleam as shadows on tree-shrouded hills. 

First Mother Of Earth

First Mother Of Earth
© Surazeus
2026 05 16

Sitting in church on Sabbath afternoon, 
heart beating at reception of weird light 
that beams slantwise through window of all time, 
I see descend on flaming wings of faith 
First Mother of Earth with eyes of bright stars 
who fills my mind with visions of survival. 

When the pastor declares with Father Voice 
that good obedient wives with humble hearts 
should submit to will of their husbands with love, 
I stand up and reach out my aching arms 
to embrace First Mother of Earth with faith 
who animates my heart with ardent truth. 

Breathing celestial energy of faith, 
I turn away from male authority 
and exit stage of global patriarchy 
to walk the signless road of everywhere 
in brave quest to find the Garden of Eden 
where First Mother of Earth tends apple trees. 

Offering assistance of my strong hands 
to help First Mother of Earth tend fruit trees, 
I narrate my name and path of my life 
that seems so random in my clumsy hope, 
so she accepts me in Garden of Eden 
where I stand guard in Watch Tower Of Faith. 

When gang of thieves surround our paradise, 
demanding we submit to righteous rule 
of their male privilege with guns of hate, 
I open gates of heaven wide, and bow 
to welcome them to feast in Hall of Faith 
where First Mother of Earth offers them wine. 

While I play Lyre of Mercury and sing 
on stage before crowd of wild revelers, 
First Mother of Earth offers guests sweet wine, 
so they dance with joy at their victory 
till they all slump drunk and limp on the ground, 
so I hang them upside from the tree. 

Screaming in rage at clever trick we played, 
arrogant men demand we let them go, 
so I explain how First Mother of Earth 
has always ruled cycles of life and death, 
then slit their throats and fill grail with their blood 
which I pour on roots of the Knowledge Tree. 

Though men form gangs in terror of Kind Death, 
and take over national governments 
to legalize their spurious right to rule, 
First Mother of Earth, with power of Nature, 
sends the Grim Reaper to erase cruel thieves, 
so children may thrive in Garden of Eden. 

Energy Of Fervent Faith

Energy Of Fervent Faith
© Surazeus
2026 05 16

From book that records every human dream 
I extract energy of fervent faith 
to travel life of every conscious soul 
till I arrive at zero mark of time 
that flashes from the negative prelude 
so I know how you feel inside your heart. 

From ocean waves that sing electric light 
I gyrate energy of fervent faith 
to measure patterns left behind by change 
which undulate in bodies we become 
so we invent new questions to preserve 
truth that water sparkles our brains awake. 

From seeds of apple trees in pungent soil 
I blossom energy of fervent faith 
to reassemble mirror mind of God 
fractured by experience of painful death 
through tilted curvature of messy love 
since drops of rain reflect my divine soul. 

From lake of dreams on adjustable wings 
I spiral energy of fervent faith 
in vain attempt of pulsing fortitude 
to repair broken hour of misfired words 
though tangled bodies writhe with attitude 
that we shall live forever on this Earth. 

From iron core of spinning pulchritude 
I magnet energy of fervent faith 
through flashing coils of rainbow avatars 
to choose my own assertive destiny 
when star stone fractures crystal shell of time 
so I may resurrect from dragon eye. 

From radiant brain of my angelic ghost 
I typhoon energy of fervent faith 
to weave ten billion globes of conscious souls 
from whirling galaxy of goddess light 
who generates our bodies from her lust 
to wake in flashing diamond of her womb. 

From hurricane of political change 
I ordain energy of fervent faith 
when hungry people conjure paradise 
from ordinary routines of concern 
while clouds glide over hills of apple trees 
where we journey signless road of desire. 

From Garden of Gethsemane at dawn 
I plunder energy of fervent faith 
to prove my random way of life is right 
though I may wander clumsily nowhere 
so I sing vision of some perfect world 
that we could build from fragments of weird dreams. 

Dream Code Of Cleverness

Dream Code Of Cleverness
© Surazeus
2026 05 16

Though I still learn dream code of cleverness 
to understand sublime beauty of Earth 
that dreamers write in magic spells of truth, 
I know ideal Heaven of perfect peace, 
where every soul is equal in brave grace, 
can never be achieved in swirl of life. 

I carve on stone dream code of cleverness 
to outline patterns of social behavior 
that strengthen bonds of each community 
as bold foundation for strong institutions 
that support each generation of humans 
who spring from heads of our grand fantasy. 

While I program dream code of cleverness, 
that designs blueprint for new global state 
based on liberty and justice for all, 
I sense chaotic swirls of potent wills 
that clash in brutal contest to control 
essential elements of life on Earth. 

Stricken down by dream code of cleverness, 
I fall from grace in Tower of Paradise 
with tattered wings of Icarus in my heart 
to hollow space of Hell where I may reign 
as bold authority who speaks Good Law 
in brave rebellion against the Blue Sky. 

So I translate dream code of cleverness 
in solemn riddles of transcendent odes 
that honor ideal forms of human souls 
so lovers almost kiss in timeless youth, 
entranced by holy songs of nightingales 
with ache of hope for our paradise lost. 

Though God and Satan, as soul stereotypes 
of mortals, compete to rule crowded nations 
in contest between Nurturer and Oppressor, 
I tend my garden on the river shore 
with my Wise Companion in home we share 
where we raise children of our loyal love. 

Unraveling dream code of cleverness, 
I deconstruct systems of mind control 
inherent in language rich elites use 
to exploit common people as sad slaves, 
so we can reframe psychic privilege 
that narrates success of all who create. 

Reconstructing dream code of cleverness, 
I design new world view with sacred myths 
that highlight creative actions of builders 
in whole ontology that integrates 
all gods in ecumenical religion 
that supports United Nations of Earth. 

Crying Elm Of Sorrow

Crying Elm Of Sorrow
© Surazeus
2026 05 16

We see him under the crying elm of sorrow 
as if his body has transformed to stone, 
yet nobody understands what he says, 
so we cover him with eglantine vines 
that bloom with delicate petals of faith 
that remind our hearts of Ithilien. 

Horses under the crying elm of sorrow 
discuss philosophy with Socrates 
who teaches them to question what is real 
but they are too innocent to rebel 
when humans harness them to pull fruit wagons 
in our journey home to Ithilien. 

Emerging from the crying elm of sorrow, 
we gather on the lake shore every summer 
to dance by starlight among apple trees 
and share stories about our families, 
then part with tears to our home villages 
scattered through valleys of Ithilien. 

Strange ghosts under the crying elm of sorrow, 
far off in shadowed woods of yesteryear, 
speak with voices more enchanting than flutes 
which haunt our lonely afternoons at home 
while we tend lush gardens of vegetables 
that bloom by rivers of Ithilien. 

World Queen under the crying elm of sorrow 
sings heart-aching melodies about loss 
to children who sit at her feet with eyes 
wide as the silver moon behind rain clouds 
who remember her voice when they grow old 
and wail for spirit of Ithilien. 

Phoebe walks toward the crying elm of sorrow 
with hesitant steps of perceptive grace 
to offer bowl of milk with kind intention 
to old bearded Wulfgar, wounded by war, 
who accepts her gift, and weeps as he drinks 
to think of souls lost in Ithilien. 

Stalled car beside the crying elm of sorrow, 
that Mercury once drove across the land 
to perform at concerts in every city 
before adoring crowds of hungry ghosts, 
now rusts in silent stillness of hot air 
and decays in woods of Ithilien. 

Dancing under the crying elm of sorrow, 
Draupadi glides with grace of secret love 
to express lamentation of her heart 
for all the people killed in civil wars 
whose names vanish in spring winds of tomorrow 
though they linger mute in Ithilien. 

Become The Eyeless Ghost

Become The Eyeless Ghost
© Surazeus
2026 05 16

Tangled in roots of the ancient pear tree, 
scroll of sorrow swells with hydraulic tears 
of nameless people in forest of shadows 
whose suffering has become the eyeless ghost 
that haunts the solemn courtrooms of old law, 
so I preserve the scroll in hall of glass. 

Each time I gaze at ghost of some dead soul, 
whose face is painted with colorful goop 
smeared on wood panel and hung on the wall, 
I see reflection of immortal soul 
encoded in the human genes we share, 
so I smile till their soul wakes in my heart. 

Arrhythmic beat of wounded angel wings 
asserts free will my heart preserves in code 
of static words that I repeat each day 
in rote routine as groove of legacy 
which scratches when I skip confining phase 
to weep with nostalgia for frantic dreams. 

Trapped by hope in dark evening of the mind, 
I chase fireflies twitching in sunset blood 
to hide from shadow slithering among trees 
till I find Apple Witch with golden eyes 
reading book of spells by the garden wall 
who gives me last martyred peach of her heart. 

Though I wander somewhere in her dark woods 
without purpose, except to understand 
why every living creature has to die, 
she calls my name no one else knows but her 
till I wake in circling aura of her heart 
where she makes me wear mask of her desire. 

Trees represent stillness of stoic grace 
we cannot keep with our time-anxious hearts, 
she explains to me with confusing words, 
so I sew leather skin of angry bulls 
into basketballs on courts of warfare 
that symbolize this civil war we fight. 

Magnified by strategies to gain fame, 
her mission readjusts focus of fate 
to avoid flaws in dilemma of truth 
that vague concepts trap our minds in grand creeds 
in which we dare indulge against regret 
with inconclusive utterance of faith. 

Thus I shall quaff moon ale from pewter stoup 
to taste sweet blood of angels with mad hearts 
who fall from Heaven every day or two 
then trudge to work at the cold factory 
to transform bones of dragons into tools 
we use to build empire of howling ghosts. 

Mission To Play Clockward

Mission To Play Clockward
© Surazeus
2026 05 15

Floating formless in alphabetized wind 
with stringent arrogance of morbid laughter, 
I map bluffed apertures of my fake mind 
to guard peach pie of my celestial daughter 
who assures me she knows how to perform 
unexpected code through cuneiform. 

Asking how our bodies are born seems gauche 
but Jesus always makes it seem so awkward 
because my character is still ebauche 
despite my holy mission to play clockward 
if my soulmate says I am sinister 
since I choose to become world minister. 

Without angel wings I am more adroit 
at building boats with glass hands of the  jester 
who defies oligarchs when they exploit 
objective ambition of the beast-master  
who trains his daughter to be dexterous 
though she thinks no state can be prosperous. 

With crystal eyes I know I cannot lose 
through fraught calculation of sincere passion 
disguised as fractal ballet of the rose 
which inspires me to go against the fashion 
and play Light-Bearer role of Lucifer 
who defies tyranny of Jupiter. 

Born to always play the wise scullion 
who never escapes crystal walls of Heaven, 
I organize our world rebellion 
with wise direction of the Silver Raven 
who teaches me the method used to save 
mankind from laughing demon in the cave. 

Too clever to win with the wizard card, 
that illustrates well the human condition, 
when I accept Minerva as my ward, 
I harmonize tumult of god ambition 
against better judgment of the Blind Queen 
who demands I design her time machine. 

Looking for another mirror to break 
through psychic anguish of the sordid circle, 
I wear glass mask of the angelic freak 
who prophesies American debacle 
erased from history by the famous scribe 
who buys insurance for our Dream Archive. 

Make me your lyre tuned to the ocean flood 
that tones each flushed season with solemn humor 
so I hover over your world and brood 
to escape celebrity of fame glamour 
that curses impetuous souls with fate 
to play the Fisherman instead of bait. 

Weird Spirit Of The Stone

Weird Spirit Of The Stone
© Surazeus
2026 05 14

While crawling through thick tangled bush of hope, 
Samael breathes deep celestial air of faith 
when giant serpent with electric eyes 
slithers along river flow on short legs, 
and gasps surprised when she arches high 
to commune with weird spirit of the stone. 

Rainbow-colored feathers along her trunk 
flutter in sudden breeze along the river 
as two-horned dragon with electric eyes 
expresses weird heart-aching song of trust 
when she reaches short arm to grasp ripe fruit 
offered her by weird spirit of the stone. 

Amazed that he can see for the first time 
angular face on long thick coiling trunk, 
Samael gazes at dragon with two horns 
that sings mercurial melody of love 
in sweet eerie wail that reverberates 
with passion from weird spirit of the stone. 

Peering through leaves of the thick tangled bush, 
Samael sees large woman with curling hair 
who stands before serpent with crystal eyes 
and offers watermelon she devours, 
then caresses her neck as the snake purrs 
since she adores weird spirit of the stone. 

Seven men who grip brass spears in their hands, 
with diamond spearheads sharp enough to pierce 
and penetrate scaled skin with rainbow feathers, 
surround curly-haired woman and huge dragon 
with grim intention to enslave them both 
so they can claim weird spirit of the stone. 

Blowing cool breath of his worshipful heart, 
Samael plays mind-entrancing melodies 
on dark-green jade flute his grandfather made, 
diverting attention of dragon-hunters 
who stare at him in mute paralysis 
as he channels weird spirit of the stone. 

Twirling swift with sudden assertive grace, 
Samael strikes with sharp blade he forged from steel 
to behead seven hunters in quick play, 
then bows low before electric-eyed dragon 
and curly-haired woman with bag of fruit 
who embody weird spirit of the stone. 

Pregnant with baby from seed of his soul, 
Lilith dances slowly with elegance 
that emotes her serpentine curves 
with sinuous cadence of fluid motion 
while Tiamat coils with delicate grace, 
and Samael guards weird spirit of the stone. 

Woke In The Anxious Zone

Woke In The Anxious Zone
© Surazeus
2026 05 14

Woke in the anxious zone of my bruised heart, 
mind twisted by healing wisdom of rainbows, 
I gather ghosts of children killed by bombs 
so they can assemble puzzle of dreams 
from fragments of distempered photographs 
that conceal immortal soul of their genes. 

Woke in the anxious zone of dancing homes, 
doors flapping wild as wings of Icarus, 
I number every home on signless roads 
that all lead to ziggurat of Ishtar 
where she designs new masks for us to wear 
when we perform our role in game of life. 

Woke in the anxious zone of wordless books, 
soaked black with blood of people killed in wars, 
I organize in conceptual framework 
every trope based on character and scene 
that stereotypes our personalities 
in standard plotlines where everyone dies. 

Woke in the anxious zone of flashing bombs, 
unspooled by formulas of righteous prayer, 
I support United Nations of Earth 
based on justice and liberty for all 
through equal opportunity from birth 
for every soul to optimize their skills. 

Woke in the anxious zone of radio ghosts, 
brains buzzing voices of demonic faith, 
I chat with every person in the world 
to understand strange motives of their hands 
concerned with shaping thoughts in clever toys 
when sorrow challenges our right to love. 

Woke in the anxious zone of humming trees, 
designed to conjure fruit of sacred truth, 
I translate riddles of the Eyeless Snake 
who whispers code I forge in key of jokes 
so I can open box Pandora made 
where my heart flutters arrogant wings. 

Woke in the anxious zone of singing skulls, 
crystal egg of draconic fortitude, 
I join justice squad that Orpheus leads 
with Apollo and Hamlet to detect 
crimes committed by greedy oligarchs 
so we administer justice on Earth. 

Woke in the anxious zone of my glass eyes, 
that beam time-animated globe of Earth, 
I cartograph whole history of mankind 
to analyze rise and fall of great empires 
till we create Heaven that unites all 
in vain attempt to manage civil strife. 

Fields Of Singing Skulls

Fields Of Singing Skulls
© Surazeus
2026 05 13

I want to dance in fields of singing skulls 
who tell me about how the world could be 
so much better in how people may thrive 
with joyful passion of pleasure from pain 
even in the sorrow of freezing rain 
that makes the ugly Earth more beautiful. 

I stumble lost in fields of singing skulls 
who tell me about the glorious war 
when glamorous Satan with serpent eyes 
rebels against grim tyrant on gold throne 
yet strives to crown himself king of the world 
as architect of his own suffering. 

I exercise in fields of singing skulls 
to transcend limitations of this flesh 
so I can gaze in mirror of my mind 
and see the glorious god I could become 
if I strive hard to overcome weak faith 
though I may fall from heights of false success. 

I meditate in fields of singing skulls 
about the state of Limbo where I dwell 
in wretched circumstance of endless strife 
because I know with faith that I deserve 
to dwell in Paradise of peaceful grace 
forever inaccessible to me. 

I strut with pride in fields of singing skulls 
to climb great mountain of assertive will 
that purges weakness from my noble frame, 
proud my attempt to reach the height of fame 
proves I deserve rewards I cannot win 
that valorize my failure to achieve. 

I lounge with grace in fields of singing skulls 
to fetishize my longing as my goal 
since fruitful Heaven is beyond my reach 
therefore my journey to the Promised Land 
is all that matters to my wounded heart 
that beats torn wings against cage of despair. 

I drift forlorn in fields of singing skulls 
while I design grand world inside my head 
that matches splendor of my divine heart 
though efforts to attain this paradise 
are doomed to failure of my vague desire 
when I remake this world in my own image. 

I play guitar in fields of singing skulls 
to channel weird mercurial vibe of faith 
through haunting wail of untuned honesty 
in total acceptance of punishment 
inflicted on me by indifferent Nature 
who provides apples I can never reach. 

Righteous Way To Go

Righteous Way To Go
© Surazeus
2026 05 13

Stuck on the righteous way to go to Heaven 
that winds through every city in the world, 
I study statues of Satan and Hamlet 
to understand romantic state of mind 
that could fuel engine of my beating heart 
when I want to leap from Tower of Hope. 

Lying stunned on the righteous way to go 
after I fall from Heaven for nine days, 
I wake alone in Valley of Despond 
with tattered wings of Icarus I stole 
to find my crash created my own space 
where I can sing solemn psalms of despair. 

Lost on the righteous way to go back home 
where ghosts of my parents forget my name, 
I cast my bread upon waters of faith 
but the birds with angelic wings of light 
die from sorrow of poisoned promises 
and I get nothing but handfuls of rain. 

Mapping the righteous way to go to Hell 
where Hamlet and Orpheus share bad jokes, 
I design new ontology of truth 
to conjure virtual model of the Earth 
that represents the way things really are 
instead of how Plato thinks they should be. 

Eager to name the righteous way to go 
that leads to paradise of apple trees, 
I plant seeds in the wilderness of pain 
that sprout into Seraphim of my heart 
who stand guard on the marble walls of Troy 
where Cassandra waits for me to come home. 

Still waiting on the righteous way to go 
through airport security with my passport, 
I think about my bride Persephone 
who meets Mona Lisa and Melusine 
to paint statues at the Vigeland Park 
beneath tall monolith of writhing ghosts. 

Racing time on the righteous way to go 
with the Third Man on cold Antarctic plains, 
I find Hammer of Thor stuck in the ice, 
so I proclaim myself King of Greenland, 
and dare mad Nebuchadnezzar to fight me 
whose statue of gold falls in the waste land. 

Abandoning the righteous way to go 
where Percival lies drowned on the sea shore, 
I ask wise Urania to marry me, 
but she is in love with Prometheus 
who operates power plant near Lake Tahoe 
that leaves thousands of people in the dark. 

Psychic Energy Of Love

Psychic Energy Of Love
© Surazeus
2026 05 12

Primal Spirit, born from infernal swirls 
in seething chaos of celestial flames, 
our Last Universal Common Ancestor 
that first evolved in hot Hadean Eon, 
still glows with psychic energy of love 
in every cell of my atomized body. 

Every organic creature, born from Earth 
with immortal soul of genetic code, 
operates machinery for protein systems 
with shared chirality of amino acids 
through fuel of adenosine triphosphate 
as universal currency of cells. 

Breaking water bonds with hydrolysis, 
adenosine triphosphate executes 
sharp energy beams sufficient to drive 
biochemical processes of life 
which animates our physical machine 
through pulsing passion of emotive force. 

Physical experience of our God Soul 
buzzes deep inside every cell of my body 
to spark aggressive assertion of will 
through brave actions of creative design 
since I feel original Force of Life 
pulse in each action I choose to perform. 

Since Primal Spirit first began to dream 
four billion years ago in spin of time, 
her spiral coil of genes accumulates 
glow of experience in stereotype tropes 
which illuminates righteous path of action 
so I pursue Course of Honor to grow. 

Driven by primal energy of hope, 
that flares forth from first flash of the big bang, 
our planet forms from solar nebula 
to generate prokaryotic cell 
empowered by stable machine of acids 
as self-dividing vesicle of lust. 

Inspired by psychic energy of love, 
I play the lyre of Mercury and sing 
hymn of praise to the Supreme Being of Light 
that glows with nuclear power in the Sun, 
so I worship Sun-Spider Solaria 
who weaves our bodies from atomic threads. 

My brain, nurtured by this chemical frame 
of my temporary body, embodies 
immortal flare of psychic energy 
that we mortal humans have signified 
with the weird word God to symbolize 
mindless passion of our desire to live. 

Yellow Snake Of Truth

Yellow Snake Of Truth
© Surazeus
2026 05 12

Dredged up from the past, strange memories, 
strangers recorded in ambiguous riddles, 
crawl wounded on hot highway of ambition, 
and latch their bodies with obsessive lust 
to pulsing antivirus of my brain 
where they plant seeds that reprogram my mind. 

Floating in colonial skyscape of hope, 
dispersed across vastness of timeless thought, 
I wear silver mask of the wise Ungod 
to play Music of the Spheres on bone lyre 
that shakes Poisoned Apple loose from my brain 
so I become the Yellow Snake of Truth. 

Brewing gloom in white hot Cauldron of Faith, 
with tears of angels, and mushrooms that sprout 
from corpses of gods men worship no more, 
I wear Mask of Folly carved from glass skull 
of the newest devil to walk the Earth 
who claws diamonds from ghost mountains of fear. 

When the Maimed King, still slouching on gold throne 
of obsolete power, clutches Holy Grail 
he stole from cracked Tomb of the Unknown savior, 
I sweep back Curtain of Uncertainty 
to reveal Faith Beggars wearing gray suits 
who preach about salvation of the vampire. 

Renamed Pilgrim of the Apocalypse, 
I react with wild laughter of King Lear 
against mechanical sterility 
of our world industrial society, 
then design weird blueprint to resurrect 
Zarathia from ruins of America. 

I bow with reverence of honest respect 
before Supreme Being of the One-Eyed Sun 
whose radiant light of life illuminates 
our spinning Earth with atoms of desire, 
since, unmoved by Eight Winds of Providence, 
he floats serenely on Lotus of Love. 

As latest descendant of Melkhizath, 
whose spirit animates my heart with faith, 
I contemplate Wyrd of our universe, 
which is the only version that exists 
out of all the possible variations 
mirrored by fractals of the multiverse. 

Still echoing softly in Cage of Voices, 
prophecies of the Sibyl with gold eyes 
shatter illusions of national pride 
because Spirit of Odin, bold Lightning-Caster, 
is worshipped by people of America, 
terrified of the Yellow Snake of Truth.