House Where Angels Live

House Where Angels Live
© Surazeus
2026 01 02

Our dead ocean that fills my mind with ghosts 
proves my soul is no bigger than the Earth 
though my body swells huge as galaxies 
that nurture conscious brains with twinkling eyes 
because they watch my life from the night skies 
as if they see the real me in my mask. 

Existing whole between Never and Now 
that bridges eternity through unsleep, 
I leap over silence between loud words 
to measure sense of crashing consciousness 
that lets me escape meaning gods invent 
to trap humans in mute worshipful trance. 

Though I would save the butterfly of fate, 
I feel confidence of the rolling stone 
that I will never save the broken world, 
so I will record the forgotten name 
of every breath-conscious organic being 
who ever wakes from nothingness of light. 

Yet when I write the holy book of truth 
in vain attempt to save the spinning world, 
I will sing till dream words explode in flames 
that freeze into the house where angels live 
that might preserve strange stories never told, 
then hang out at the Pegasus Cafe. 

When Phoebus strums guitar of naked joy, 
free Venus dances in the apple grove, 
Mars hunts dream demons in the jungle hills, 
Beowulf works in the car factory, 
and Thor erects office tower of steel 
where Zeus presides over his global bank. 

They built the empire I see fall today, 
so I find no ruins in the waste land 
where I could shore my fragments of fake truth, 
yet every photograph ever preserved 
is flash of light in timeless cyberspace 
that together form the global God Face. 

Since innocence of death shines in our eyes 
till we are born from seaweed of the mind, 
we linger on the endless road back home 
through speculation of the mindless sun 
who seems indifferent to our bitter pain, 
yet nourishes our bodies with fresh fruit. 

My reverent kiss of loyal clemency 
may bring the waveless ocean back to life, 
so I will name each faceless ghost of hope 
who deigns appear from dream-unspooling words 
trapped in the holy book no one dares read, 
except the girl who was born before light. 

Moon Mirror Of Fate

Moon Mirror Of Fate
© Surazeus
2026 01 02

If the cloud is still free from moral guilt 
after fifty years floating in his brain, 
then she will serve no sacrificial cakes 
to the boy who turns stones into snowflakes, 
because he loves Andromeda with pride 
though she clamps bulletless rifle of fame. 

He plays trill sonata the devil wrote 
because she searches for the flower seed 
that sprouts from tangled words in holy books 
which no one anymore takes time to read 
though he waits on the bridge of somewhere else 
to play the aviator she would wed. 

He thinks the strange sky is hilarious, 
but she waits in old theater of stars 
for him to find her puzzle in the pond 
enclosed inside walls of the grocery store 
where he carves horses from fierce bars of soap 
to build his army and claim the White House. 

She decides that their trees by the dirt road, 
where angels of ice dance in blazing sunlight, 
should be partners in their chess game of love, 
so they lie where the honeysuckles bloom 
and talk about what their first kiss should mean 
as if blind men decide how they should live. 

Laughing with delight at his fear of faith, 
she draws admission ticket to her heart, 
so he gives her glass of water with grin 
that causes every clock on Earth to spin 
faster than leaves that flutter in fake wind, 
then discovers America again. 

She reminds him of what she said before, 
that we are half air and half dirt of hope, 
so they study snowy map of despair 
and decide how they should open the door 
that leads them to the land of empty homes 
where children disappear in words of books. 

We cannot win the game of broken trees, 
she whispers when he floats on the moon breeze, 
so they hold hands with trust in numbers game 
that keeps their bodies rooted to the Earth 
as they transform to piston-engine cars 
that drive endless circles under dead stars. 

Where have we all gone the past fifty years, 
he asks the ghost in moon mirror of fate, 
since the cheerful cloud of guilt first appeared 
above lost temple of the holy land 
where she still floats one inch above the Earth 
for she designs the dream world where we live. 

Global Dream Choir

Global Dream Choir
© Surazeus
2026 01 01

So many angels walk around on Earth 
who sing essential spells of spirit birth 
with pure transcendent voice of holy fire 
in harmony with our global dream choir, 
I cross broken bridge of forgetfulness 
to sing with passion in the wilderness. 

Each rare unearthly singer with star eyes, 
who floats on silken wings from rainbow skies, 
brings sacred message from immortal wraith 
in lyric lantern that beams light of faith 
transforming sorrow to pure happiness 
with angel voice of sacred earnestness. 

Amphibian god from swamp of psychic code 
helps blaze noble institutional road 
where members of the inner club may waltz 
in secret chamber of their private vaults 
as they boost each other with tenderness 
to hide imposter state of bitterness. 

Because bright angels of poetic wit, 
whose spells make genius verse seem counterfeit, 
float just above bland surface of the world, 
they must oppose game of the cosmic herald 
whose eerie spells expose their phoniness 
contrived from twisting states of loneliness. 

Approached by frantic ghost of clemency, 
each floating angel of importancy 
steals memories from weak faceless entities 
to earn vain social fame from fractured keys 
based on denial of blind selfishness 
that satisfies no hungry hollowness. 

Trapped by assertive lust for global fame, 
that casts their puerile souls in fervid game, 
untethered angels clutching scrolls of verse 
find their mad Muse crippled by its curse 
that morphs their souls with haughty greediness 
to mute robotic clowns of clumsiness. 

Entranced by solemn psalms of angel bards, 
tricked by misfortune of fallacious cards, 
we gather piously in temple halls 
to hear brave poems echo off sterile walls 
that spin our brains with grammar dizziness 
in lines free of constraining luckiness. 

So many angels crowd vast maze of myths 
to vie for laurels beneath monoliths, 
that I evade conceptual language spells 
to find demonic runes in vision wells 
refracting insight of sly wariness 
which unmask thirsty ghouls of holiness. 

Wear Mask Of Jesus

Wear Mask Of Jesus
© Surazeus
2026 01 01

I find my old story painted in snow 
by talons of ravens with moon-gold eyes 
that watch me with smirks on the castle wall 
where I find fallen crown of Anne Boleyn 
whose bright ghost haunts me everywhere I go 
so I sit at desk of sorrow and write. 

Right now my heart beats with cold winter wind 
that chills bones of people shopping at noon 
for presents they plan to give their loved ones 
where cars with piston engines stop and go 
at flash of lights bright as draconic eyes 
so I ache to soar high in silver skies. 

Spies record every little thing I do 
as I wander randomly about town 
past the gate of traitors where ribbons hang 
to indicate right way through maze of myths 
where people of nations wander in fear 
so I topple idols of their dead gods. 

Squads of gangsters paid by the government 
try to arrest innocent citizens 
but people who work in stores and hotels 
film their nefarious deeds with eye-phones 
then gather around the fountain of tears 
so I lead lost souls from the underworld. 

Curled on my lap on first day of the year, 
my cat with demonic eyes of respect 
purrs as I caress her long forest fur 
while watching drama about small-town kids 
who fight cruel monsters of the Rightside Up 
so I play wizard on holy crusade. 

Spade in hands of the humble working man 
glistens in sunlight at construction site 
as I dig up soil of the town soccer field 
to pour cement as foundation of faith 
for church that honors the crucified king 
so I design religion based on truth. 

Booth of the fortune teller by the bank 
glows with mysterious light of the moon 
when Madame Sosostris with serpent eyes 
reveals my secret name Tiresias 
transformed by Hera to girl in long dress 
so I play Judy Garland on world stage. 

Caged by diagnostics of world events 
through frantic architecture of blind greed, 
we mimic wingless angels to rebel 
against mind control of the puppeteer 
who preaches supremacy of his god 
so I wear mask of Jesus to the show. 

Brave Children Of Our Love

Brave Children Of Our Love
© Surazeus
2026 01 01

Another spin around the shining sun 
returns my body to fountain of light 
where I swim laughing in the dreamless deep 
to mold my passion into juicy fruit 
that flushes my veins with electric blood 
so I resurrect from grave of my heart. 

Evolving now four hundred million years, 
I transform life after life to become 
Idea of God that gleams in my mind 
as goal toward which I strive with ache of love 
through passion of the conscious brain I am 
to transcend nothingness of wordless sleep. 

I walk the signless road on quest for truth 
around the spinning world ten thousand times, 
forever lost on boundless plain of time 
where I build homes from anguish of respect 
as tombs that shelter my ancestral skulls 
while I continue on another dawn. 

Fast forward on the endless road of hope 
I fly toward vision of paradise lost 
where I tend fruit trees of my broken heart 
that bloom with treasure of the shining sun 
transforming rain to energy of love 
so we can dance another hour till death. 

Each flower blooming from corpse of my heart 
remembers every life of driving pain 
that my ancestors lived from birth to birth 
which motivates my lonely quest to find 
pure spark of light in darkness of my brain 
till I expand my conscious scope as God. 

I wake each morning eighty million years 
reborn in new form of immortal genes 
to walk vast landscape of this cluttered globe 
and fight for life against aggressive hate 
so I survive each cycle of rebirth 
against the greedy puppeteer of power. 

I hide my face behind hard mask of faith 
to shield my soul against consuming fear 
so I transcend relentless swirl of death 
beyond brutal fate of Achilles Christ 
as I evade destruction long enough 
to generate new child before I die. 

Another spin around the mindless sun 
reveals four hundred million years of change 
as perfect vision of our life on Earth 
because we struggle against pain and fear 
to find our soul mate on the road of hope 
so we become brave children of our love. 

Our Last Sad Farewell

Our Last Sad Farewell
© Surazeus
2026 01 01

There was no time for our last sad farewell, 
Martha whispers to the time-wilted tree 
as she kneels on frozen mud in bare field 
near the wheel-worn road past abandoned farm, 
and shivers in tattered dress of her youth 
though the sun is small and green in gray clouds. 

If I tell you I love you with pure light 
while time is flowing swift as valley streams 
I fear our love would change and dissipate, 
then everything would flow away with it, 
and vanish into nothingness of fate, 
so I try to stop time to express love. 

Gray wisps of hair tangled by winter wind 
veil her wrinkled face with wordless pain 
as withered hands press against frozen mud 
where she buried him thirty years before, 
and wonders if he knows she is still here, 
aching with desire to see his lost face. 

Ghosts of young lovers dance around old woman, 
her younger self and man she madly loves, 
on warm spring evening thirty years before 
when they embraced and laughed with careless joy 
from calm confidence they would be together 
forever in paradise of their hearts. 

I never thought our time of joyful love 
would be short as three seasons of wild spring 
before that gang of thieves stabbed you with spears 
for defending our fruit grove with brave faith, 
nor that I would survive your sudden death 
more than thirty years of persistent hope. 

My skin, once clean as ripe rain-nourished apples, 
is wrinkled now as stiff hoof-trampled mud, 
but you are still young in my memories, 
eyes sparkling with mischievous energy 
as he crept up behind me with sly plan 
to steal another kiss with tender care. 

Inhaling bitter wind with resigned faith, 
Martha slowly stands on frail trembling legs 
and trudges from grave of her youthful love 
toward crumbling shack where she still lives alone, 
but stops halfway to vain eternity 
when gang of children call her evil witch. 

Tears freeze on her cheeks as they dance around 
and throw hateful stones that bruise her frail arms, 
and she trembles, battered by their hard kicks, 
when she collapses prone in the barren field, 
and stares at his face in indifferent clouds 
that shroud her broken body with white snow.