What You Leave Undone

What You Leave Undone
© Surazeus
2026 07 21

You fix the hinges on the broken door 
to frame strange beauty of quiet sunlight 
through fraught ideology based on facts 
that measures consequence of mindless cause 
when you remember what you leave undone 
with deliberate grace of the figured sun. 

You leave your sorrows in the puzzle box 
on stretch of open country devils map 
with solid ambience of unclean thoughts 
constrained by brain-programming buzz of words 
defined by apparition of your soul 
that flaps as tattered star-flag on the pole. 

You offer whiskey to the zombie king 
who feeds three-headed dog of hungry hope 
fantastic dreams you discard in hot sand 
because you swagger on the desert road 
toward ghost town under burnished sky of dread 
that groans with bones of demons in your head. 

You stroll with ardent vigor of blind gods 
to play brave guardian angel of your Hell 
where blandished apparitions steal your cake 
with calm intensity of humble thieves 
who drive west to the last town of your heart 
where swift coyotes steal your fateful chart. 

You drive through dust storm of your vacant clock 
past humming fences of barbed-wire to steal 
torn cloak of death with tragic sense of greed 
by selling hope of paradise to fools 
who cling with faith of homeless refugees 
to Afterlife with holy apple trees. 

You kneel in pain by highway of despair 
as dreamless ghost to scrawl in swirling sand 
tale of your victimhood through suffering 
abuse from people who cannot see you 
as noble person worthy of respect, 
tricked to believe your soul will resurrect. 

You ask for how the Cosmic Architect, 
who drives your rusty truck of gratitude 
on long indifferent highway of the dead, 
could build grand temple from cracked skulls of gods 
to celebrate your life and death on Earth 
with solemn elegies of bitter mirth. 

You stare at mask of your immortal face 
reflected in mirror of Our World Mind, 
but you are stranger to your inner self 
who nurses wounds of guilt from your cruel deeds 
because you violate sacred rule of Zeus 
to welcome immigrants into your home. 

Ocean Shore Of Nevertime

Ocean Shore Of Nevertime
© Surazeus
2026 07 21

Alone on ocean shore of Nevertime, 
he waits for Lord of Heaven to return, 
aware of voices from eight billion souls 
expressing passion of their will to live, 
but no one comes from clouds of blazing fire 
except the mindless sun that rises bright. 

Strange visions of the undescribed sublime 
conceal in symbols secrets he would learn 
to understand how humans play their roles 
by force of will or predetermined fate, 
though all our hopes converge in global choir 
that shatters illusion of holy right. 

No longer frightened by wild swirl of time, 
that twists our bodies from humans to gods 
trapped in weird fairy tales no one reads, 
he finds bold stubbornness of humble faith 
as gleaming diamond jagged in his heart 
with pain that drives him to transcend his fate. 

Constrained by gravity of spinning Earth, 
that bolts our bodies to change-shifting ground, 
he listens at the broken door of hope 
for wild uncanny voices angels chime 
that knocks his body loose from womb of love 
to wander wordless by the humming lake. 

Beside somnolent lake of whispered lies, 
where iridescent ghosts of long-dead ghosts 
appear from cracked stones of philosophy, 
he swells his heart with breath of honesty 
to fill the timeless void of everywhere 
with lonely wisdom of contingent faith. 

Awake on sea-borne boat of travesty, 
he sails toward somewhere he thinks might be home, 
though childhood meadows vanish in stark mist, 
and gazes deep in waters of the sea 
where shadows of his fears lurk urgently 
as snakes in features of his changeless face. 

Bound by soaring mountains and depthless seas, 
he feels powerless strength of swirling waves 
obstruct his journey to the Promised Land 
though he attends to labor of the heart 
with divine passion of the star-eyed snake 
who seems to know his weirdest memories. 

He is the boatman on wild tides of change, 
alone who wields the oar of guiding truth, 
asserting progress through his ship of state 
past Scylla and Charybdis of despair, 
heart wounded with pain his harsh actions caused, 
till he kneels and weeps on Ithaka shore. 

Zen Flash Of God-Eyes

Zen Flash Of God-Eyes
© Surazeus
2026 07 20

Neglected horror of our fractured world 
conceals strange beauty of the human heart 
with legendary myths of noble gods 
who play with loyal men in games of chess 
till they realize gods they worship are fake, 
no more than mortal men wearing gold masks. 

Vast wilderness of roundness sprawls awake 
inside glass jar of honest arrogance, 
corrupt with greed for loyal followers 
who praise the brave influencer of truth 
with glowing accolades for noble deeds 
attacking hostile keepers of the gate. 

Thick mist of sorrow shrouds stone streets of faith 
where marble temple stands three thousand years 
as haven for lost homeless travelers 
to seek deep wisdom on blank walls of fate, 
grand hall long empty but for wind and rain 
that nurture trees where ancient gods once ruled. 

Entranced by silver essence of the lake, 
I seek bright Zen of vacant nothingness 
within the seething network of my brain 
to free my heart from taut bonds of desire 
that bind wings of my soul with hungry hope 
to understand true nature of the world. 

Immortal wisdom of my mortal being, 
programmed by gene-god of my dreaming brain, 
tricks me to seek salvation of the heart 
in temple floating on high glowing clouds 
where angel-ghosts of people I once knew 
play harps forever in harmonious peace. 

Quiet manifestation of great truth 
appears in flash of light before my eyes 
so I draw power down from swirling clouds 
to writhe in tangled verse of sentences 
that map our journey to the Promised Land 
among ten thousand peaks of glowing eyes. 

Zen flash of god-eyes in my aching heart 
still urges me to follow signless trails 
through endless hills composed of angel skulls 
where I rest weary body of my soul 
in tholos veiled by swirls of apple blooms 
to meditate on how clear water flows. 

Ethereal calm of timeless mountain vale 
inspires my heart with weird sublimity 
while I sip apple cider brewed at dawn 
to meditate on nothingness of life 
the swells my true self huge as thunder clouds 
so I will dissipate in swirls of rain. 

Yet Flowers Still Blossom

Yet Flowers Still Blossom
© Surazeus
2026 07 20

Men fight each other to control the land, 
forming gangs who design weapons of death 
to battle over valleys of deep lakes 
and kill each other over groves of trees, 
building great empires that collapse from greed, 
and yet flowers still blossom from the Earth. 

Men erect walls of stone carved from hard cliffs 
and stand guard at the gates of paradise 
where tyrants proclaim themselves God of Truth 
to keep people obedient to their will 
whom they exploit as slaves to garnish wealth, 
and yet flowers still blossom from the Earth. 

Men dig minerals from caves deep in hills, 
enslaving men convicted of dire crimes 
to slave as the dead in underworld mines, 
extracting gold and jewels from dark gloom 
so kings in palaces wear crowns of power, 
and yet flowers still blossom from the Earth. 

Men abduct beautiful women from homes, 
so other men gather armies of boys 
who battle many years at walls of power, 
killing heroes who defend their homeland 
for they go mad when their weak pride is bruised, 
and yet flowers still blossom from the Earth. 

Men build armies from young orphaned boys, 
training them in hard camps for many years 
till they become elite warriors of pride 
who follow god on horse of divine right 
to invade and colonize distant lands, 
and yet flowers still blossom from the Earth. 

Men fly airplanes in clouds where old gods hide 
and drop bombs on sprawling cities of homes 
to kill millions of people, young and old, 
who cry out for justice to empty skies 
where God of their Fathers sits on fake throne, 
and yet flowers still blossom from the Earth. 

Men connive and plot to attain state power 
then declare their divine right to rule all, 
proclaiming themselves gods in human form, 
but they all grow old to wither and die, 
so other men fight to grasp fallen crowns, 
and yet flowers still blossom from the Earth. 

Men increase wealth with hard work of their hands 
to build safe home where their children grow strong 
who branch out to exploit treasure-rich lands, 
but Death always destroys body and soul 
so other people take the things we make, 
and yet flowers still blossom from the Earth. 

Welcome To My Home

Welcome To My Home
© Surazeus
2026 07 20

Dew drops on tips of grass at dawn gleam gold 
with eyes of angels who gaze in my soul 
with cosmic knowledge of the universe 
that knows the secret name of my Gene-God 
whose vision glows in network of my brain 
with divine consciousness of holy light. 

Toward marble building, built like a Greek temple 
as Athens federal savings and loan bank 
four years before I was born on this Earth, 
I stride at dawn from the parking garage 
to map water and sewer line networks 
that service every house in lush Oconia. 

Dream world of ancient social energy, 
created by sun spider of desire, 
shimmers as web of interactive nodes 
that link each person across our Great Land 
with electric lines on telephone poles 
as cyberspace that reflects our real world. 

While I want to conserve state of his world 
as it exists from centuries of work, 
I hope to develop through careful plans 
complex infrastructure of roads and buildings 
to better manage reproductive needs 
which secures safe space for humans to thrive. 

Outrage explodes in hearts of honest folk 
when greedy oligarchs in distant lands 
invade sovereign lands with gangs of armed boys 
who bomb buildings people built with their hands, 
and kill innocent people with blind hate 
so they can control treasures of rich hills. 

Bodies of families, parents and children, 
killed by bombs of swift planes and rumbling tanks, 
become the soil of Earth on which we walk 
to plant fruit trees in new Garden of Eden 
that flourishes from corpses of the dead 
where we gather to sing victorious hymns. 

Their tears gleam as dew drops on tips of grass 
where eyes of devils glare at me with hate 
so I craft Wand of Wisdom from fruit tree, 
pull Sword of Justice from meteor stone, 
and forge Rifle of Truth from polished steel, 
prepared to defend my land from invaders. 

Zeus tells me I should welcome to my home 
all travelers, pilgrims, and refugees 
as immigrants who seek new land to dwell 
safe from cruel tyrants in castles of power, 
so when Odysseus knocks at my door 
I share my feast to hear his journey tale. 

Fragile Boats Of Hope

Fragile Boats Of Hope
© Surazeus
2026 07 19

The world river of life flows from my heart 
to fill abyss of fear with sea of love 
so we can sail our fragile boats of hope 
across the surging waves of honesty 
home from sacking towers of Ilium 
where trees of truth bloom from corpses of gods. 

The graceful goddess of my consciousness, 
who glides among fruit trees on the broad shore, 
stoops low to scoop with dipper of her heart 
memories humans relinquish in cold tears 
to quench her thirst for feelings we discard 
which swells her heart with love for every soul. 

The full moon floats in branches of tall trees, 
exposed to conscious gaze of my bruised heart 
while blazing with azure uncanniness 
as sacred treasure every human shares, 
while restless ocean waves of ancient hopes 
leave fragments of our dreams on silent beach. 

The psychic refuge of my broken dreams 
blurs pungent feeling from my stage of being 
so wordless thoughts of innocent desire 
ripple silver stipples across my mind 
as eyes through adequate obscurity 
because I suffer sea change in my heart. 

Because that is not what I mean at all, 
I might be missing whatever I am, 
so I declare with certainty of faith 
that I am nobody, and so are you, 
escaping one-eyed monster of despair, 
since now I am not what I am, I think. 

Incompetent to speak of who I am, 
alone in space of timeless solitude, 
I fashion new persona mask to wear 
so I become the person I would be, 
bold shadow slithering swift across the ground 
which measures fragile fullness of my being. 

Each moment I am real in flesh of time 
flares up as match of psychic energy 
transforming me from fish to singing god 
defined by whorl of flashing water flow 
that vibrates at thunderous crack of faith 
from storm cloud rumbling over mountain peaks. 

I rise from Stygian pool of wounded hearts 
when I compose coherent narrative 
from ensemble of social anecdotes, 
recording heroic deeds of dead men 
who programmed how our brains perceive the world 
as forms of atoms molded from ideas. 

Gothic Armor Of My Heart

Gothic Armor Of My Heart
© Surazeus
2026 07 19

Still alive on land ripe with certainties, 
I draw dividing line of innocence 
straight between reason and insanity 
so can I taste truth through infinity 
and stop where calm wind erases despair 
to convert guilt into hope without luck. 

Removing gothic armor of my heart, 
as grim prizefighter wounded by the word 
my grandmother speaks outside prophecy, 
I weed old Garden of Gethsemane 
where skulls of prophets sing without dream code 
that guides my way through epochs of world power. 

No shallow mercies of the castle court 
reveal source of iron in stringent caves 
where demons no longer haunt dreams of seers, 
so I design new theme for Wonderland 
that might attract the summer tourist crowd 
who love to watch Death judge the deeds of fools. 

Entranced by weird Saronic blue of time 
that shimmers on the timeless sea of truth, 
I wander somewhere in Arcadia 
beyond fictional framework of the map 
along the signless road of nowhere else 
to dwell in mountain temple of dead gods. 

Soft cries of owls in woods of harmony 
expose electric glow of urgency 
that leads us to small mountain pool of stars 
where Pythagoras counts infinity 
contained in measurement of simple words 
programmed as formulas we code from fear. 

Smoke from my humble hearth of fantasy 
towers in luminous ghost of respect 
so I stand small and frail on river shore 
engulfed by grand immensity of time 
that wraps my heart with ancient ardency, 
filled with conscious mind of divinity. 

Strange darkness of the boundless night contrives 
to swell my heart with love for the sublime 
that gleams with pristine beauty of our words 
when we exchange solemn vows of true love, 
then return to our tower of romance 
before lightning strike shatters our world view. 

Though sunlit demons of faith animate 
our fragile bodies with unholy chime, 
we explore uncanny vales of liberty 
in line with ultimatum of soul fate 
which calculates how far we have to go 
to build foundation of our global state. 

Taste Sorrow Of The Moon

Taste Sorrow Of The Moon
© Surazeus
2026 07 18

If I stand outside in hot evening rain 
I can almost taste sorrow of the moon 
sweet as honey on peanut-buttered toast, 
but when gods of ancient societies 
arrive with tablets and bottles of wine, 
we dance all night to celebrate true love. 

I hear soft voice of sorrow in gray mist 
when young Theneva, pregnant with disgrace, 
arrives on boat of wisdom on my shore, 
so I give shelter to the wounded girl 
whose father hurled her from cliff of despair 
then cast her adrift on indifferent seas. 

How far across the swirling sea of hope 
must I sail bravely in frail ship of faith 
to find lost homeland of lush Ithaca 
where prim Penelope in ribboned gown 
weaves tapestry depicting noble deeds 
of warriors fighting for security. 

All questions about nature of this world 
have compiled code of wisdom in fraught verse 
recording ancient wisdom of wise fools 
who proffered answers about how things are, 
so I lounge mindlessly on my back porch, 
plucking rusty strings on my old guitar. 

Though Achilles, gone mad with grief of loss, 
destroyed the city full of families 
to rescue Helen from towers of love, 
Odysseus sailed against obsessive hate 
past obstacles of fear and bitter pride 
to restore the city where his wife rules. 

With baskets on arms of companionship, 
we gather strawberries, mushrooms, and eggs, 
along with lavender and eglantine, 
from sun-drenched meadows of sweet innocence, 
till we find Theneva wounded on grass, 
so we bear her to cave of healing care. 

Now that I know name of that faceless ghost 
who haunts my backyard after the sun sets, 
I translate voice of thunder in wild rain 
to analyze state of the human mind 
processing global conflicts with old myths 
that celebrate the hero who goes home. 

Though we seem lost in rugged hills of mist, 
wise Wotadinus raises wand of truth 
and calls our names so we may follow close 
attentive journey of his earnest quest 
to build safe home with walls of honest stone 
where sweet Theneva may tend apple trees. 

No Face To Mask My Soul

No Face To Mask My Soul
© Surazeus
2026 07 18

I sit down with the natural sight of gain, 
against simple tones of exploding trees 
eager for commitment, since my eyes move 
with twirling planets of lackluster faith, 
if wings of peaches flutter with the clock 
heavier than fake sorrow rendered mute. 

Discerned adjustment of extensive space 
between faces of strangers on the street 
too important to sell, with radiant smiles, 
sounds of silence through mediocrity, 
if thoughts stumble blind into broken doors 
locked against hungry refugees of war. 

Gentility confined to edge of cliffs, 
unaccountable to agents of truth, 
hangs by crude rotation without new pens 
to calculate how soon death comes for us, 
if distance entrances hearts of believers 
stuck on the train that will never arrive. 

Not for all the wine of anywhere else 
will I go to Heaven on the glass hill 
because I want to buy your love with pearls 
as sign of holy sentiment I feel, 
if love stops emerging from wounded hearts, 
for how blue the sky always seems to be. 

As body with no face to mask my soul 
I walk the invisible beach of faith 
without sand in the story with no plot 
except when I agree without good terms, 
if angels have no alabaster wings, 
to sail the sea without the boat of skulls. 

Though death infers logical sense of fear, 
I persist without intention to build 
new house that is no home on signless road 
despite how love should act beyond the phase, 
if fate adorns aversion with false hope, 
from which is born cause of obscurity. 

He says he sees my picture on the wall 
in railway station underneath the church 
where zombies worship vampire as their god 
who plays disc jockey on the radio, 
if we are amazed by obvious things, 
broadcasting revolution in hip code. 

Still shored against grim ruins of the past, 
that buzzes facts of history in my brain, 
I deign to anticipate, with sly jokes, 
collapse of our empire just before lunch, 
if we share power to operate fate, 
because the end of the world is postponed. 

How Quiet Blueness Knows

How Quiet Blueness Knows
© Surazeus
2026 07 18

With startled eyes on quivering twine of truth 
I cast my longing in vast sea of dreams 
but I catch nothing more than devil-gods 
who think they are brave rulers of the world, 
so I lurk in strange shadows of the mind 
to multiply my soul as wordless books. 

I walk on shifting sands of honesty 
to prove I know the secret name of God 
who floods parched land of hope with bitter tears 
where we drown laughing in sorrow we sold 
so we can buy gold castle of the clouds 
designed by children in library rooms. 

Awake on blackberry lane without fear, 
I gather fragments of ghosts from burned books 
to plaster them in beehive of delight, 
concerned for lesser platitude of light 
contained in boxes stacked with silent thought 
despite how quiet blueness knows our names. 

Because I open wide my quiet voice 
with long contrition of excessive hope, 
I blindly wander green fields of dismay 
in search for ordinary time alone 
because I need new battery for my heart 
to understand what strangers want to say. 

No road is straight enough to follow home, 
though they extend beyond hills of esteem 
with proverb I should overcome my fear 
for loss of people I try not to love 
because they disappear in swirling fog 
each time I call their name at stubborn dawn. 

Across bleak moorland to gray city streets 
I follow twisted signs of pulchritude 
on mission to repair bridge of disgrace 
with fractured concepts of seasonal wealth 
derived from sales of flowers to the dead 
before lamps flash while swinging in rain wind. 

Another harried age of our weird world 
returns with summer glow of hungry leaves 
refracting rainbow demons through our hearts 
so we hear spiders sing with ruthless love, 
undone by beauty of her maskless face 
without exception of uncertain truth. 

Through hedonistic wholeness we aspire 
to float on sprawling silence of god eyes, 
based on the stark indifference of grace 
that splits unsteady happiness with smiles 
while we walk endless trail of dire renown 
to channel typhoon winds with humble hymns. 

Art Of Losing Things

Art Of Losing Things
© Surazeus
2026 07 18

Almost unseen in the hot summer sun, 
the faceless ghost who haunts my large back yard 
watches me with ancient eyes of regret, 
but when I approach her in soundless glow 
of heatwaves shimmering over dry grass 
she vanishes into ache of my heart. 

Just as I almost forget she is real, 
she reappears from shadow of desire 
to show me tremendous fish of her heart 
that she caught from deep lake of innocence, 
speckled with lime rosettes of secret code, 
which pulses with rainbow of rented truth. 

With eyes that glare at long-dead stars of faith, 
she tells me I should master with intent 
the art of losing things I value most, 
so I spend hours searching for dream keys 
that I am sure I left beside the door, 
while she stares weeping at her broken watch. 

I write her story in my book of tales 
with golden blood of angels as my ink, 
but every morning when I look again 
the words have vanished into beams of light 
cast by the midday sun through web of limbs 
from trees that seem to understand her heart. 

Her life must be disaster of desire, 
strange drama never seen on stage of fame, 
because she walks along the winding flow 
of red Scamander River on the plain 
below the hill where towers of Ilium 
crumbled into words of lost epic poems. 

While I sip ginger tea on the back porch, 
idly plucking strings of my broken lyre, 
she grips my arm with weird beatific smile, 
and tells me this day when the tyrant falls 
is the most beautiful day of the year 
but tomorrow we must get back to work. 

Because I think I hear the forest elf 
whistle as she dances on moonlit grass, 
I feel my heart drawn taut as silver string 
that twangs with wordless voices of the land 
where star-eyed owls of Nowhere Land keep watch 
over ghost-crowded streets of paradise. 

Eyes half-closed against the bright summer sun, 
that shimmers gold in canopies of trees, 
I hear eerie song of the faceless ghost 
whose sweet mercurial voice of secret love 
reveals the presence of Athena near, 
because I am the sorrow of her tear. 

Graves Of The Nameless Dead

Graves Of The Nameless Dead
© Surazeus
2026 07 17

Awake in ghost-glow of the city maze 
that sprawls across vast plain of anguished wind 
where turgid swamps once festered amid palms, 
I walk along the endless lamplit roads 
past thousand churches with harsh clanging bells 
where frightened people pray to stick of wood. 

When I slouch despondently by the sea, 
the mad-eyed Fletcher from dark mountain woods 
points to the trembling topaz of his heart 
which I mistake to be the Evening Star, 
so I return to cave of humming ghosts 
where diamonds glow with light of the First Flash. 

Orpheus wanders with his broken lyre 
through choking shadows of the underworld 
because no faceless ghost with wavering voice 
follows his untuned melody of faith 
in vain attempt to escape numbing fear 
that we return to mute flame of our birth. 

I trust dire vision of Orpheus more 
than deceptive lie of the afterlife 
that Paulus preached by the tomb of Platon 
because our bodies cannot resurrect 
from organ-crushing nothingness of death, 
nor do our souls linger mute in dark Hell. 

Though I descend to grim Plutonian caves, 
where Orcus whips chained slaves to mine more gold, 
I find no spectral spirits of the dead 
for they are living men enslaved by greed 
who toil in Underworld where treasures bleed 
tears of despair from men who long to die. 

Two souls of immortal transciency meet 
in circle of firm flesh on jagged hill 
to weave taut threads of spirit-binding genes 
that sparks divine soul of immortal hope 
with words of truth unheard in human speech 
which flare forth flame of faith in dreaming eyes. 

Though stars that flicker with beautiful gleam 
burned out to lightless spheres of spinning gas 
millions of years ago in swirl of time, 
their rays of hope appear in our night skies 
with surge of blood-tides in our mortal hearts 
so we express our faith in solemn hymns. 

Orpheus strums the lyre of Mercury 
and sings about the lonely odyssey 
of wily men who learn through suffering 
to honor sacred pale of every home 
by offering shelter to lost refugees 
who build homes on graves of the nameless dead. 

Weird Alphabet Code

Weird Alphabet Code
© Surazeus
2026 07 17

Diurnal factor of the holy mind 
recalculates process of vital faith 
that resurrects from rancid vibrancy 
new state of mind based on theory of play 
through which my hungry heart recalibrates 
sacred path I blaze to avoid world fame. 

The multiverse represents all the worlds 
our brains can imagine as possible, 
but they all emanate through fantasy 
from this real universe in which we live, 
so we must see this world as it exists, 
messy confluence of willful desires. 

Strange wisdom of the rising sun requires 
focused attention of the filtered mind 
to assemble random facts about life 
in ever-shifting puzzle of half-truths 
as kaleidoscopic lens of desire 
through which we perceive what we want to see. 

Disguised as old woman in flower dress 
who has taught grade-school children forty years, 
Seraphus reveals weird alphabet code 
composing words in sentences of hope 
which frames reality of swirling atoms 
in mental paradigm of social truths. 

When I see white horse gallop on grass plain 
with gusts of wind that cause tall trees to swirl, 
I track how my brain processes this scene 
as linguistic function of formal ideas 
to signify objects with qualities 
that describe actions they perform in time. 

Though my brain places label on its form 
describing how the white horse swiftly runs, 
I note how static word fails to present 
swirling complexity of active life, 
yet focuses attention of my mind 
on how to visualize its vibe with verse. 

Quotidian process of analog thoughts 
weaves concepts in digital images 
through frantic analysis based on vibes 
that produce grand portrait of human brains 
tangled with random memories of pain 
which motivates our need to invent truth. 

Expansive scope of beautiful conceptions 
encloses complex forces in whole swirl 
framed by accelerating sphere of fate 
that generates our bodies from coiled genes 
powered by electric soul of the brain 
which animates our minds with flash of love. 

Desolate Texas Highway

Desolate Texas Highway
© Surazeus
2026 07 16

Cold wind howls on desolate Texas highway 
where Darlene trudges to end of the world 
after running away from house of sorrow 
where her cruel step-father stumbles home drunk 
and beats her mother to steal all her money 
she earns working as a waitress all night. 

Death walks beside her on dark Texas highway 
but Darlene ignores his demonic eyes 
and sneers at thunder that cracks walls of Heaven 
by twisting rainbows into tangled knots 
to calculate process of righteous anger 
that guides her journey across the waste land. 

Black van stops on the naked Texas highway 
so Darlene runs into the howling wind 
but three men drag her to the hotel prison 
where old businessmen and youth pastors pay 
with coins of despair forged from bitter laughter 
to treat her like their sad wives they despise. 

Running nowhere on the bruised Texas highway 
after Darlene shoots mean pimp in the head, 
she stumbles barefoot in the marble palace 
where graceful ghosts worship Helen of Troy 
who tries to hide inside the golden idol 
to escape death from domestic abuse. 

When we meet on the dusty Texas highway 
Darlene gives me cracked mask of Lucifer 
so I play noble role of tyrant-slayer 
in revolution for justice and truth 
till she gets trapped in Tower of Rapunzel 
as popstar who sings on the stage of fame. 

Ghost horse in drizzle on gray Texas highway 
guides Darlene home to the small country town 
where Vulcan works as car engine mechanic 
who plays indie folk in the smokey bar 
with mercurial voice of sincere compassion 
for children killed in genocidal wars. 

Hitchhiking west on the lone Texas highway, 
Darlene considers secret of the moon 
that shimmers in silver lake of discretion 
with arcane formulas of moral code 
to program how our brains perceive the world 
as ever-shifting puzzle of tall tales. 

Devils dance on deserted Texas highway 
though Darlene unravels clock of her mind 
transformed from concept of the loyal turtle 
where the blind read lost books of tragic tales 
designed to hypnotize objective people 
with bright fantasy of the Afterlife. 

Mystery Of Musical Tunes

Mystery Of Musical Tunes
© Surazeus
2026 07 16

Though my brain oscillates with frantic hope 
that justice triumphs over tyranny, 
I wander blithely balanced just enough 
to eat hamburger at the Globe cafe 
and ponder mystery of musical tunes 
that cause the mind to hum in harmony. 

This hour of sudden weirdness, still unknown, 
becomes my destiny by lazy choice 
so I gaze far down hazy road of hope 
to see what strange opinions I should hold 
implicit in surroundings of bare hills 
which I map to analyze fantasy. 

Since I have no inherent legal right 
to be myself with mask of Lucifer, 
I decide to film events of my life 
as if my deeds are dramatic enough 
to compose grand epic of daily needs 
because time suits my passion to pretend. 

This disassembled puzzle of my soul 
might be composed of random sentences 
discarded by the wizard in gray suit 
who talks about the boring things of life 
without hook of the brutal question mark 
that snags blind demon from my hungry heart. 

Becoming more what I have never been, 
I eat last grain of curiosity 
to build new empire on productive farms 
because I gain from suffering I endure 
bright with sheen of forgotten memories 
that angels sell to devils in tool stores. 

Calm thunderstorm over the Texas plain 
reminds me that my spirit image fits 
well in social network of fancy games 
contrived by religious authorities 
based on deduction of justified theft 
in space cleared by arrival of desire. 

My brain projects virtual model of Earth 
on walls of the church where everyone prays 
for one king to rule nations of the world 
with secretions of the demonized heart 
healed by the humorous savior who knows 
how rapturous clouds appear in my skull. 

Since everyone knows truth becomes the hole 
in which our bodies writhe with pulsing words, 
we walk hand in hand on the garden path 
where blood-stained flowers bloom from corpse of God 
to climb the tower of water with pride 
since justice triumphs over tyranny. 

Backward My Dream Mind

Backward My Dream Mind
© Surazeus
2026 07 16

Backward my dream mind, vast as mountain vale, 
wild gushing waters of hope overtake, 
so on winged horse of innocent respect 
I travel abreast with Nature afar 
to comprehend strange music of her form 
that vibrates with psychic music of love. 

Forward with tattered pirate map of hope, 
remnants of friends in buried treasure chests, 
I search for in abandoned yards of dreams 
whose world of secrets I abandoned, lost 
by walking signless road of nowhere else 
till I find something lodged inside my heart. 

How many jagged mountains of desire 
I wonder wait for my mind to explore 
secret caves of cold fire, blue as dawn ice, 
where I would lay my body down to die 
still as sharp ache of hope that stabs my heart 
with eager passion to drink moon-bleak tears. 

Waves of the ocean reach for my soft heart 
with hunger to devour soul energy 
pulsing through blood veins with new strategies 
to outmaneuver thieves in business suits, 
because they sell cliffs to the gullible 
as suitable fields to cultivate crops. 

Another friend returns with stolen gems 
from naked underworld of honesty 
because he knows how to unpuzzle truth 
concealed in alabaster jar of oil 
rancid with secret desires of true love 
for beauty embodied in sculptured mask. 

My fake voice lingers in dim emptiness 
with shocking melody of bitterness 
sweetened by tumultuous ardency 
to sing with resonant silence of truth 
that cracks foundations of world empires 
so our faces become square as glass books. 

No wandering gypsy of the river woods 
dares curse my heart with unrequited love 
which I package with plastic dolls of fear 
for sale to discrete tyrants of concern 
though some prefer fake gratitude of fruit 
rotten with spices of arrogant faith. 

Marvelous thoughts trapped in fairy-tale books 
encourage me to question noble laws 
contrived to rig the social game of power 
in favor of the privileged elite 
who bury treasures outside paradise 
so I leave secrets hidden in the heart. 

White Horse In The Stone

White Horse In The Stone
© Surazeus
2026 07 15

The way we dance about the broken tree 
of knowledge, where three angels gamble souls 
against electric solitude of fate, 
reveals conceptual jaggedness of fear 
by which we prove our noble manliness 
with psychic levels of testosterone. 

Trapped in grim ritual of the shopping spree 
to buy masks and costumes for our new roles, 
I scrub our television screens of hate 
on holy mission from the Puppeteer 
who questions origin of happiness 
invented by the white horse in the stone. 

The way we gather at the flash of  dawn 
in ring of stones, that angels call Stonehenge, 
to sing electric hymn of shocking truth, 
inspires the eyeless aliens from Zar 
to teach us humans how to colonize 
the waste land with water pipes of desire. 

In every life I always play the pawn 
trained by Minerva to unpeel the orange 
as heartfelt gift to world messiah sleuth 
who rules United States of Zathamar 
through hidden network of innocent spies 
who sing about Orpheus in the choir. 

The way we weep with anguish of respect 
for people who die unfairly each day, 
because our souls dwell in no afterlife, 
exposes fraud of preachers who declare 
our wounded bodies will rise from the dead 
because our brains pulse with ancestral ghosts. 

Unnerved by riddles of the brain defect 
which fool me into thinking I must pray 
with plan to learn lessons from mental strife, 
I emerge dripping from swamp of despair 
to parade with jeweled crown on my head 
on global stage where I play Lord of Hosts. 

The way we type our thoughts in fractured verse 
in vain attempt to describe what is real, 
contrary to lies of religious creeds, 
expands scope of my conscious sense of self 
beyond strict bounds of righteous lethargy 
based on canon law of the vampire god. 

Inspired to wear bright mask of Lucifer, 
designed by my mother with glass and steel, 
I study potent vibrancy of seeds 
that bloom from footsteps of the daring elf 
whose kiss sparks my heart with dream energy 
which helps me code the formula for fraud. 

If I Am Someone Else

If I Am Someone Else
© Surazeus
2026 07 15

Shocked by thought-executing fires of hope 
that mold rotundity of Earth from words 
stolen by ravens from dark river shores, 
I charge subscription of strange elements 
that crack calm confidence in mindless truth 
with earnest plan to assert dominance. 

Careless regression from pastoral states 
of mind, contrived by articles of faith, 
contracts expansive scope of innocence 
smaller than the measuring spoon of time 
by which I scoop conceptual nonchalance 
with vague obsession of planless progress. 

Time seems to readjust intense display 
of prowess I project with neutral stance 
where I determine, through unseen design, 
to stand my ground against unnatural force 
that cracks foundation of our social state 
so we fend for ourselves in silent woods. 

Perhaps one thousand years of waterfalls 
have now eroded jagged mountain peaks 
down to wind-rounded hills of smooth regret, 
dispersing spirit of the heart on silver lake 
where ghosts of snowflakes swirl in summer haze 
till they become cranes of adjacent charm. 

Though I have journeyed on the rugged trail 
through seasonal blasts of hostile intent, 
when I reach the door where my best friend dwells 
I pause to savor with intense respect 
urgent passion to travel, now fulfilled, 
then turn around and travel home again. 

Exhausted by attempts to reach the moon 
on tattered wings of hope Icarus lost, 
I stretch description of my faceless soul 
inert on throbbing surface of broken rocks, 
cluttered in seething globe of timeless change, 
till I wonder if I am someone else. 

Disassembled brain of dream-powered gears, 
that oscillates between time-tangling poles, 
programs itself to change how it perceives 
reality through weird framework of tales 
derived from fractured memories of ghosts 
who vehemently deny they are dead. 

Though I once ran swift as the long-maned horse 
along winding stream of advanced degrees, 
in courageous plan to transcend frail frame 
of passion-filtered reverence, my soul 
expends excessive energy of faith 
to evade fate that laughs with tender love. 

National Zoo Of Fame

National Zoo Of Fame
© Surazeus
2026 07 14

After I escape from prison of hope, 
and litter streets of fear with greedy thugs, 
I shall fly the rocket to outer space 
and live in my gold palace on the moon 
far away from the business office complex 
where the Swan of Tuonela waits for me. 

My faith links the fantasy of escape 
with brutal reality of confinement 
because I am the mute ape in your zoo 
who longs to live free in suburbia, 
in the three-bedroom ranch house by the lake 
with white sedan I drive to work each day. 

Though the signless road of my bold ambition 
grows dimmer every day I drive toward Heaven, 
in swirling smog where I can hardly see, 
I fight the devil with the silver star 
who laughs with shotgun of law in his hand 
because he knows I will never be free. 

Trapped within the National Zoo of Fame, 
by the senator who owns the gold mine 
on our land where my father tended wheat, 
my fierce rebellious lion-heart of faith 
is monitored by state psychiatrists 
who study mystery of the human mind. 

Exhibited in cage of my persona, 
I dwell in domestic structure of marriage, 
restricted by the law of give and take 
as I perform identity I stole 
by wearing suit and tie with polished shoes 
when I sit at desk of authority. 

I stare in mirror of my memories 
to wonder where my childhood vanished to 
in faded photographs of broken schools 
filled with faceless people who pray in church 
for savior of the world to rescue them 
from junkyard garden of the rotten tree. 

The photo of my war against the state, 
where I pose with long rifle on my hip 
while riding naked on my shadow horse, 
hangs on the wall of your suburban church 
to prove the wicked come to sorry ends 
as bullet-riddled corpses on dirt roads. 

My tragic flaw is I will seize the day 
despite the consequences actions cause 
when I design network of water pipes 
to provide social service of respect 
to every house in the factory town 
displayed in your National Zoo of Fame. 

Why Time Is Fake

Why Time Is Fake
© Surazeus
2026 07 13

Camilla considers why time is fake 
while floating in glass boat on the star lake, 
though wingless angels on the muddy shore 
keep disappearing through numberless door 
at sudden crack of bells that realigns 
statues of dead gods in conceptual lines. 

Staring at her face in the mirror gleam, 
Camilla thinks about joining the team 
of wingless angels to hunt criminals 
who abuse good people like animals, 
but three clocks on the vast cathedral wall 
unweave matrix of time in sad rainfall. 

Packing six paper bags of groceries 
while angels spiral through her ovaries, 
Camilla plans her clandestine escape 
from prison of her home in the dreamscape 
by switching money to her bank account 
with secret agent of the castle count. 

Bright headlights of the speeding car expose 
uncertain beauty of her private rose 
with flashing magnet of hypnotic trance 
through thought paralysis of her stiff stance 
at shock of horror that her husband steers 
car of bitter rage at her wordless fears. 

Crushed against her car at sudden impact 
of blunt aggression beyond legal fact, 
Camilla gasps in anguish of mute pain 
that sears through tattered fabric of the vain 
with mangled ardency of canceled hope 
untwisting order of her mental scope. 

Stunned awake beyond conscious state of fear 
at blurred flash of the unreachable near, 
Camilla writhes in buzzing blast of shock 
that sucks her spirit into the faceless rock 
where she becomes small seed of nothingness 
as swollen bulge on bridge of faithfulness. 

From open eyes of vast infinity, 
Camilla soars through sharp futility 
as wordless blood from gaping mouth of love 
gurgles desperately to express concern 
for safety of her daughter in the car 
whose eyes are fractured by the lonely star. 

While Camilla floats in the ambulance 
to gamble with death in fraught game of chance, 
police arrest her husband as he snarls 
with rage against disobedient girls, 
but the nurse pronounces moment of death 
when young mother explains why time is fake. 

Golden Hurt Of Knowingness

Golden Hurt Of Knowingness
© Surazeus
2026 07 13

While strumming broken lyre of Mercury, 
inspired by golden hurt of knowingness, 
I sing about the woman with nine hearts 
who founds world empire of Olympia 
which unites fractured nations of the world 
through Anglonesia of our eager hope. 

Eager to dance on the mirror-mind moon, 
inspired by golden hurt of knowingness, 
I open wounded heart of charity 
with selfless play through generosity 
to fund the private dream of every soul 
who builds garden of fruit in the waste land. 

Awake with passion for the common man, 
inspired by golden hurt of knowingness, 
I build safe home along the signless road 
for every human alive on this Earth 
to dwell in paradise of equal rights 
that gleams as fantasy in sun-bright clouds. 

While searching for the Holy Grail of love, 
inspired by golden hurt of knowingness, 
I gather geospatial data sets 
about every aspect of human life 
to map complex depiction of our world 
through detailed analysis of desire. 

While soaring on broad wings of Icarus, 
inspired by golden hurt of knowingness, 
I hunt vast city maze of broken idols 
for evil men who abuse and exploit 
other human beings for their selfish gain 
to free slaves of money from chains of hope. 

Alert to clever scams of corporate kings, 
inspired by golden hurt of knowingness, 
I track deceptive calls from telephones 
to huge fraud factories in jungle zones 
where job-seekers trapped in forced labor camps 
call us with offers too good to be true. 

Avid for grand agenda of the woke, 
inspired by golden hurt of knowingness, 
I gather abused victims of the world 
who fight as social justice warriors 
to defeat Midas and his gang of thieves 
who try to enslave us with credit debt. 

While wearing honest mask of Lucifer, 
inspired by golden hurt of knowingness, 
I follow Goddess of Justice and Truth 
who leads our holy war for liberty 
for every person living on this globe 
that spins forever in the godless void. 

Wonder At Beauty Of Life

Wonder At Beauty Of Life
© Surazeus
2026 07 12

Every road in the world leads to my home 
so I visit every home in the world 
and give my loneliness in ribboned book 
to every person in the world I meet 
who gives me their own version of my name 
that binds our hearts with brutal sense of hope. 

Startled by shining angel on the slope 
who offers me jeweled crown of world fame, 
I veil my spirit with mask of retreat 
to hide in small cave by the mourning brook, 
alert in shadow where my soul lies curled 
as curious fox hidden in pungent loam. 

Suspended between flashing poles of time, 
brief blaze of insight in my urgent heart 
reflects my soul in mirror pool of fate 
through transitory bloom of mental scheme 
contrived to wake my spirit from despair 
and teach me to accept seasonal change. 

Assertive purpose to extend my range 
on route to anywhere humans may care 
converts attention of my wordless dream 
to seek new occupation where I wait 
with curious breath that weaves expansive chart 
which heals my wounded heart with every chime. 

In dark uncertain hour before bright dawn 
at weird enchantment of familiar sight 
I meet the eerie presence of my faith 
in faceless stranger whom I know too well 
who asks if wonder at beauty of life 
inspires my heart to transcend fear of death. 

Fulfilled beast of my heart considers math 
that calculates inherent worth of strife 
to forge my soul from wisdom in harsh hell 
when I first name the transcendental wraith 
who teaches conscious potency of right 
that fuels my mission to unking the pawn. 

Since each beginning is another end 
that sparks my ostentatious quest for power 
I program vulgar passion to transform 
weak frame of wisdom in my wounded heart 
to bravery of the wolf who knows the way 
through timeless moments in bloom of the rose. 

When I arrive at place of my repose 
beneath the apple tree where devils pray, 
I build new gate from wheels of my dream cart 
since I am voice of every evening storm 
that rings in highest room of the ghost tower 
composed of faith that crumbles into sand. 

Secret Agent Of My Heart

Secret Agent Of My Heart
© Surazeus
2026 07 12

Because the secret agent of my heart 
is activated into combat mode 
when greedy devils of the corporate bank 
kidnap my precious daughter from safe haven, 
I transform into fierce angel of vengeance 
to harrow Hell and free blind slaves of money. 

When I was young, with tender heart of hope, 
I launched my new-built river boat of faith, 
encouraged by star-eyed ghost of my mother, 
and sailed bright river between tree-lush shores 
toward glorious palace of gold glowing clouds 
that gleams beyond horizon of desire. 

Yet bright illusion of my fantasy 
that shimmers with pleasures I long to taste 
lures me to city teeming with strange treasures 
that trick my hands to take what I desire 
with appetite for unreachable beauty 
till debt traps me as slave of hungry greed. 

Too many voices of seductive truth 
that echo with passion in city streets 
present bright fantasies of facile wealth 
through advertisements of brave services 
which offer easy solutions of power 
till I dispel them with assertive spell. 

Toward shining palace of celestial clouds 
I sail far from safe homeland of my heart 
but wander lost in maze of puzzling doors 
locked tight against dark thunderstorm of fear 
on mission to find daughter of my heart 
trapped somewhere in lush paradise of faith. 

I wander circles among market stalls 
amid chaotic turmoil of desire 
where people seeking treasures of the heart 
flow swift in patterns of rapacity 
till I lie dizzy in the field of skulls 
and call name of my daughter to the wind. 

Hands bleeding with rapacious hope for truth, 
I claw precious minerals from the Earth 
to mold material wealth of energy 
in forms of beauty that blind eager eyes 
with grandiose visions of national pride 
as hall of stone that stands ten thousand years. 

When I breach secure walls of paradise 
to find my daughter dancing by the pool, 
feet bound by golden chains of charity, 
I fight to free her soul from slavery, 
but wealth controls her power to create 
life from aggressive ambition of fate. 

Memories Of Dead Gods

Memories Of Dead Gods
© Surazeus
2026 07 12

When dawn sun opens mirror of my brain 
I reassemble framework of my face 
with fragments torn from memories of dead gods 
so I when I face the world at flash of fame 
my honest simpleness may shield my heart 
from slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. 

I get my eyes from Cronus and Saturnus 
so I may see heart of each human being 
that glows with secret passion they would hide 
when we exchange conceptual energy 
through tangled formula of sentences 
encoding sentiment in psychic code. 

I get my ears from Phoebus and Apollo 
so I may hear bright music of the spheres 
that radiates from first flash of the god eye 
when I translate weird song of ocean waves 
to pop songs blaring on the radio 
when everyone plays Sunday on the beach. 

I get my arms from Bacchus and Hephaestus 
so I may craft wave-leaping ship of fate 
from wood of trees I cut from Helicon 
when I sail seven seas on treasure quest 
to colonize the world with castle queens 
who rule cities at mouths of flowing rivers. 

I get my heart from Jupiter and Jesus 
so I may rule empire of pyramids 
controlling fields of wheat and herds of cows 
when I ride white horse on the hill of skulls 
to fight crocodiles in the steaming swamp, 
depicted as Saint George who slays the dragon. 

I get my brain from Athena and Hermes 
so I may envision in lines of verse 
deeds wise heroes perform as humble men 
who seek to understand nature of things 
as they develop through philosophy 
foundation of our world civilization. 

I get my tongue from Hera and Poseidon 
so I may sing enchanting spells of sight 
depicting complex nature of the heart 
which animates each human to explore 
expansive landscape of our spinning globe 
that generates our souls in pulsing brains. 

Though my frail mortal body is composed 
of fragments from grand deities of time, 
I pause from endless journey of my soul 
on signless road in waste land of despair 
and laugh at weird absurdity of life, 
then keep on searching for the Promised Land. 

Angelic Wings Of Fortitude

Angelic Wings Of Fortitude
© Surazeus
2026 07 11

What I experience is irrelevant 
to beauty of truth that shines as the sun 
which energizes atoms to compose 
fragile bodies that nourish dreaming brains 
awake with passion to taste fruit of hope 
that blooms from twisted anguish of tree limbs. 

Disconnected from valley of my birth, 
I walk on grass of exile without words 
to understand excessive flash of stones 
which ask what secret name I answer to 
by cooking bread from dough of fearless faith 
though wind blows ashes from my trembling hand. 

Trapped in dank prison of rebellious hope 
by chains of fear men forge from bitter hate, 
I spread angelic wings of fortitude 
to soar above vast maze of doorless homes 
but weep for people stuck inside despair 
till I fall back inside my fragile head. 

To escape that plausible state of grace 
against hostile attack of wingless fame, 
I transform into tortoise with steel bones, 
empowered by majestic haughtiness 
that I can fly on angel wings of faith 
to dwell in realm of changeless paradigms. 

My conscious sense of selfhood is programmed 
by all my fierce ancestors who have lived 
four hundred million years of desperate faith, 
therefore by now my brain imagines state 
of psychic power to transcend its frame 
alive beyond bounds of this mortal flesh. 

Deluded I can live outside my brain 
as faceless soul of timeless energy, 
I prance on rainbow bridge of innocence 
to organize delusions of my power 
in mural that depicts my divine myth 
which crumbles to dust of lost centuries. 

My soul that shimmers with light of the sun 
is chemical function of my sponge brain 
which animates fragile body of bones 
as vehicle I drive to procreate 
new body for my genes before I die 
since I will dissipate to wordless wind. 

Though I imagine I can fly with grace 
beyond bounds of my skull on wings of light, 
I always swirl back in shell of my skull 
and wake from nothingness of dreamless sleep 
to laugh with joy that I am still alive, 
surprised at beauty of this cluttered world. 

Snow-White God Butterfly

Snow-White God Butterfly
© Surazeus
2026 07 11

If I cast my bread in waters of hope, 
after selling devils ten thousand cars, 
I could buy descendant of Pegasus 
to fly above vast maze of city streets 
where people chase bright rainbow of respect 
till they vanish in television shows. 

With sharp knife of assertive innocence, 
I slice bread loaf of economic gain 
so every person in the world can eat 
as if food is the answer to despair, 
because the snow-white god butterfly knows 
secret passion of my casino heart. 

Though all gods humans worshipped in the past 
are nameless gusts of wind in sun-gold trees, 
I feel them ever present in my home 
for they haunt those who think about them most, 
small lights of hope in darkness of the world 
that guide my way in tangled woods of change. 

Ghost of my mother in her living room 
sits in the rocking chair of timeless truth, 
and knits another sweater of concern 
from huge ball of traumatic memories 
which she gives to homeless people downtown 
who wear them when they huddle in snow fall. 

Since the dream ghost of everyone decides 
to sell lamp of Diogenes to Thor, 
our bodies have become vessels of thought 
programmed to perform duties for the dream 
that hard work is rewarded with great wealth 
which we all share in our hypnotic trance. 

When Alfred the Great and Harald Fairhair 
play game of chess in Kronborg Castle court 
over who will wear the golden Crown of Thorns, 
Phoebus takes hand of Alof Gydhasdottir 
and sails with her to misty Isle of Skye 
where they fly his starship to Magrathea. 

Now that I know my whole ancestral tale, 
filled with men and women with starry eyes 
who attempted to build Heaven on Earth, 
I can relax on shore of River Styx 
and think of how to map world history 
that includes every soul who ever lived. 

After I work in the car factory, 
assembling engines from midnight till dawn, 
I hang out in meadow of dew-wet grass 
and listen to snow-white god butterfly 
describe how swerving atoms interact 
to conjure consciousness in dreaming brains. 

Fleeting Span Of Life

Fleeting Span Of Life
© Surazeus
2026 07 10

Though infinite flash days before my birth 
and infinite mire days I rot in Earth, 
I spend this fleeting span of life with you 
beside our lake of dreams that shimmers blue 
with dignity of love our bodies share 
as flames of energy that writhe in air. 

Though toil of hope our work-worn hands express 
proves vain as too-brief glow of happiness, 
we bind our hearts with contract to create 
calm hours of peace by star-lit lake of fate 
to savor pleasure of beauty that floats 
almost changeless as time-revealing boats. 

Though we have drifted far across the land 
on signless roads unmapped by human hand, 
we still are loath to linger in one place 
too long, since generosity of grace 
traps earnest travelers in paradise 
where hearts get twisted by corrupting vice. 

Though urgent passion to explore deep vales 
drives our souls forward into blasting gales, 
we like to dwell on sparkling river shore 
to bake sweet barley bread by open door, 
then drink tart wine in timeless twilight glow 
to watch wild sparrows fly with Zephyr flow. 

Though we would like to journey to the star 
that lures our careless hearts to reach too far, 
we will one day lie down on nursing grass 
and sing without regret as our souls pass, 
so, nameless Traveler, stop by this mound 
where we are buried in the hungry ground. 

Though you have far to go before bright sun 
sets blazing on wild hills where swift deer run, 
sit on this mound where our old bodies lie 
and listen to proud evening crickets cry 
mournful elegies for each conscious being 
who lived and died in shadow of the wing. 

Though I have vanished from long dream of Earth 
as if my divine spirit beamed no worth, 
my dreams recorded in riddles of verse 
radiate as light across the universe 
so yet-born children on this same lake shore 
will hear my voice sing long-forgotten lore. 

Though I stroll staffless down this endless road 
on mission to pay Hades what I owed, 
still hearty as I wither from old age, 
my children play lyre of Phoebus on the stage 
while slow Acheron bears my glowing soul 
to Elysium after I play my role. 

Integration Of God Eggs

Integration Of God Eggs
© Surazeus
2026 07 10

Still tracing blood in final truth of bone, 
cracked by assertive thoughts none dare express, 
I enter our remote tower in air 
where silver wisher of the humble Clerk 
recalls swift flight of hawks at dawn of fate 
which casts strange shadow on the broken gate. 

Unsure if spools of time may detox fear, 
when curious fish in tunnels of green seas 
teach me to wrestle fate in wordless gloom, 
I scatter remnants of my wicked dreams 
on sparkling sands of arrogant dismay 
to prove my heart intends to offer hope. 

Indifferent to souls of children that flit 
on sparrow wings of urgent confidence 
between vast strangeness of borderless hills, 
I wander down the forest path of hope 
and open wide my arms to embrace love, 
but you disapparate from barren fields. 

If we should meet again at starless flash 
safe within crumbling palaces of bone, 
we may exchange insightful tales of fate 
to resurrect blind demons from our hearts 
and banish them with laughter to the moon 
at sudden comprehension of torn wings. 

We wait together on the river shore 
to be seen by God in gold cloud of fate, 
but children scatter far across the hills 
which leaves us half-asleep in dreamless heat 
at shocking quickness of the dancing tree 
that hides our sorrow in shadow of eyes. 

Our debt to integration of god eggs 
remains unpaid from countless spins of fear, 
bedazzled by ambiguous ambience 
that we experience in unwindowed room 
where martyred ghosts of honeysuckle twist 
our minds with laughter beyond countless years. 

Each clue I leave on meadow of glass skulls 
blinds your electric eyes with clever code 
so you attempt to sell your wounded heart 
entwined with reason of innocent vines 
if we escape taut mesh of tangled lies 
contained by hideous roar of knelling words. 

Though still unwept by dangerous regret, 
sweet Stella gives me dignity of trust 
which I record in seventh testament 
at dazed solemnity of honest men 
whose shadows sterilize valleys of ghosts, 
fluent with forced fragility of faith. 

Misty Vales Of Caledonia

Misty Vales Of Caledonia
© Surazeus
2026 07 10

Through misty vales of Caledonia 
with lamp of Diogenes on my hand, 
I search for the dream ghost of everywhere 
who seems to know the secret of my name, 
because I hear her voice in tangled woods 
sing heart-enchanting melody of love. 

In shadowed woods of Caledonia 
with sharp spear of Longinus in my hand, 
I find Carline, daughter of Hecate, 
brewing cauldron of honey mushroom wine 
so I offer apples from Tree of Truth 
to star-eyed Nicnevan with long black hair. 

On jagged hills of Caledonia 
with blunt Hammer of Thor in my hand, 
I build stone towers as havens of faith 
where daughters of Scathach may dwell in peace 
to raise brave children of their aching hearts 
who map the world with hard feet of desire. 

From rugged shores of Caledonia 
with billowed sails of curiosity, 
I sail wood ship on flashing waves of hope 
along Black River of Goddess Danu 
who leads her people to the Promised Land 
to live safe from the swords of hungry greed. 

Up winding trails of Caledonia 
with Wand of Zambor to steady my gait, 
I climb fairy hill of Sith Chailleann 
where winds of wisdom swirling flakes of snow 
speak with voices my ancestors expressed 
about strange history of humanity. 

By sparkling lakes of Caledonia 
with eye-phone linking to the world wide web, 
I film deep waters of placid Loch Ness 
in hope to see lithe monster of God Mind 
that lurks in lightless abyss of my heart 
with arcane knowledge of all human fate. 

Down secret caves of Caledonia 
with flashlight that illuminates the mind, 
I find skulls of demonic dinosaurs, 
who roamed the world millions of years ago 
before we evolved to angels from mice, 
to record riddles of their prophecies. 

Across lush fields of Caledonia 
with horse of courage swift as morning wind, 
I confront the dream ghost of everywhere 
who shows me how history will unfold 
through revelation of messiah sleuth 
whose spirit wakes in hearts of all mankind. 

Official Mask Of Fate

Official Mask Of Fate
© Surazeus
2026 07 09

Stuck in the painting of my faceless ghost, 
that hangs on sun-bleached wall of bloodless wind 
in empty house somewhere on signless road 
where no one ever goes to find their heart, 
I pretend I am cold light of the moon 
as I float deep in water of my mind. 

Awake in timeless silence of undeath, 
I love to feel soft undulating waves 
that people speak caress my tingling skin 
so I almost remember secret name 
my mother dreamed one hour before my birth 
which gleams as sunlight in web of tree limbs. 

While sitting in my house on somewhere street, 
with wife and children in their private rooms, 
I hear ten million voices whisper poems 
that pulse with energy of my heartbeat 
in global choir of angels who express 
ache of sorrow to design happiness. 

Your secret hopes and fears echo in words 
you write in posts on social media sites 
that shimmer in great cloud of divine lights 
translating human thoughts from tweets of birds 
that blend in raucous harmony of hope 
with desperate need to help each other cope. 

Though I gaze in pool where Narcissus drowned, 
I see your faces blend in my one face 
for we are angels of one human race 
born from First Mother whose whole heart is crowned 
with jeweled ring of wisdom we all share 
in coil of genes that weaves our souls with care. 

Though I hear all your voices echo clear 
in woods where Echo plays the violin, 
that radiates vibes of mental medicine, 
I sing in syncopated rhyme of cheer 
that cracks enormous egg of dragon brain 
which nourishes my heart to soothe its pain. 

Bloomed in the painting of my faceless ghost 
which I wear as official mask of fate, 
I attend the Global Conference of Seers 
at University of Zarathia 
to present panel on star prophecies 
composed by Sibyl in the Vatican. 

All weird illusions of my special role 
dissipate to mist on shore of the lake 
where words of every poem that humans write 
sparkle as water of silent respect 
on which I row my boat of fantasy 
to photograph proud monster of the deep. 

Justice For Every Soul

Justice For Every Soul
© Surazeus
2026 07 08

You are happy to find the broken moon 
in pool of rain outside abandoned house 
where your grandmother grills demonic fish 
with miso soup and noodles of frog brains, 
so you pretend to own your happiness 
when you stand on the porch and wonder why. 

On the way back to the last town on Earth, 
where children live in television screens, 
we stop at diner by the factory, 
where your grandfather made Volkswagen cars, 
and eat hamburgers from dinosaur meat 
while watching soccer on the frazzled wall. 

You are not scared of spiders in your eyes 
for they refract conceptual dreams of gods 
to prove we still know how to make the fire 
from ancient books of lies that preachers sell 
because you talk to pigs about the law 
that requires we donate more than we steal. 

Time unwinds laughter you hide in fake books 
because you watch the science fiction show 
about the captain and his ship of fools 
who must contend with demigods and ghouls 
when darkness of autumn evening descends 
on city of ten thousand screaming trains. 

You stare at face of your first teddy bear 
and ask him why he wants to climb the pole 
where savior of the world hangs crucified 
as if he whispers secrets of your heart 
that unwrite centuries of holy writ 
despite how you cook omelets at dawn. 

You sit three thousand years in attic room, 
peeling oranges for refugees of war 
who appear and disappear in your ken 
till singers gather on the castle lawn 
in calm rebellion of the broken heart 
because you want justice for every soul. 

You hear about your father on the news 
shot dead by agents of the government 
while he was driving to work building homes, 
and when you hear his voice on video 
cry for help as he bleeds on the hot road 
you transform into white horse in the egg. 

You walk alone on ocean shore of fate 
and ask the mindless wind why men must hate 
people who just want to live their own way, 
then you turn around and point at my mask, 
but I have become you inside your head 
so you map world where angels fear to tread. 

Endless Road Of Certainty

Endless Road Of Certainty
© Surazeus
2026 07 08

Too many ways to fall from the blank sky 
interrupt my game of fun chess with Death 
on the beach where children play hide and seek 
to understand how televisions work 
when unseen signals vibrate through the air 
in psychic waves of interactive dreams. 

Too fast for fierce human eyes to detect, 
ghosts flit around our bodies of frail flesh 
on wings of words derived from psychic trash 
and weave with riddle code of honesty 
addictive webs of enervating thoughts 
constraining choices of fate we compose. 

Too far down endless road of certainty 
I wander far beyond necessity 
with ardent faith in what was never real 
till I stand stunned on high edge of the world 
to stare at silver flux of secrecy 
discerned by thoughtless minds of decency. 

Too late for me to address you by name, 
I look for you in every empty room 
because I want to understand your heart 
and what strange passion of hidden desire 
motivates you attempt to stall death 
though we all will die and return to dust. 

Too soon for Jesus to return again 
from Heaven that persists inside our brains 
as Realm of Ideas that never change, 
eternal forms of objects I perceive 
provide blueprint for atoms to compose 
seething bodies from hot energy waves. 

Too close to source of psychic vibrancy, 
I twirl in graceful glide of urgency 
to generate new life before I die 
since I have been reborn since dawn of time 
from coil of genes in writhing mental vine 
which makes me feel immortal as the stars. 

Too slow for fate to allocate my rights 
with flexible modes of contingency, 
Death waits for me far down the signless road 
so I stroll calmly along winding streams 
and scatter fruit seeds of fertility 
across the waste land of my solitude. 

Too few alternatives for rising up 
from thick rotundity of our vast world, 
I feel all-shaking thunder of desire 
swell molds of nature with intense concern 
to flush my heart with gratefulness at life 
when storms forge courage in my cautious heart. 

Safe In The Sad Forever

Safe In The Sad Forever
© Surazeus
2026 07 07

Safe in the sad forever of my heart, 
I take solace with arrogant respect 
that all living creatures move toward their end, 
because at final rush of victory 
beneath brilliant cross of flashing sunrays 
we know strange beauty of eternity. 

Safe in the sad forever of God Brain, 
I ride electric horse with rainbow wings 
in swirling chaos of perceptive plans 
to take my children to the river park 
where they play tag with fairies and kobolds 
that teach them secrets of eternal life. 

Safe in the sad forever of huge books, 
I play mad wizard to categorize 
the fantasy-industrial complex 
composed of spiritual cults that preserve 
arcane secrets of invisible seers 
who keep wise Sibyl locked in golden cage. 

Safe in the sad forever of fruit trees, 
I chat about philosophy of truth 
with rainbow serpent of the sorcerer 
who teaches me how to reanimate 
bodies of the dead with potion of faith 
brewed from honey and mushrooms with love. 

Safe in the sad forever of vast woods, 
I measure winding flow of mountain streams 
through brave analysis of legal rights 
concerning who asserts their privilege 
to play the broken lyre of Mercury 
preserved in museum of singing skulls. 

Safe in the sad forever of deep lakes, 
I program zeitgeist of the modern world 
in fractured narrative of fairytales 
describing placid life of cubicles 
as high achievement of the human race 
since evolving four hundred million years. 

Safe in the sad forever of glass church, 
I bend slant rays of alabaster keys 
to catch swift falcon of the history gyre 
who shows me how to bind the center core 
which holds all nations of the world by law 
united through bold rights of liberty. 

Safe in the sad forever of gold clouds, 
I write code for world spirit of the Earth 
at second coming of messiah sleuth 
who plays the broken lyre inside my heart 
with vexed assessment of lost centuries 
when I slouch toward Oregon to be born. 

Among The First To Wake

Among The First To Wake
© Surazeus
2026 07 07

Among the first to wake in dream of Earth, 
Enitha glides along lush river shore 
among pink primrose blooming softly sweet 
from gentle caress of her tender feet 
that leads her path to silent misty moor 
where luminous phantom gleams in her eyes. 

Strange butterfly of sorrow with gold eyes 
lands on large apple in broad tangled tree 
so shy Enitha reaches out her hand 
just as bright lightning flashes in black cloud 
so she breathes sudden gust of crackling wind 
when luminous phantom scatters black rain. 

When giant spider, larger than her hand, 
crawls up trunk of the broken apple tree, 
Enitha holds her trembling body still 
to watch how long legs weave thin silver web 
that shimmers with each gust of subtle wind 
as luminous phantom gleams in raindrops. 

Small herd of deer with large black eyes of faith, 
yet tense with skittish innocence of fear, 
assemble on shore of the sparkling stream 
to drink with cautious terror of desire 
but flee in shadow of the ancient woods 
when luminous phantom opens her eyes. 

Among the first to wake from dream of time, 
Enitha gazes long at sparkling stars 
that flicker in soft undulating waves 
with swirl of clouds lit gold by sudden moon 
that rises dripping from deep mountain lake 
since luminous phantom knows her true name. 

Elegant horse with long shimmering mane 
grazes on low hill slope among tall grass, 
so lithe Enitha hides in tall oak tree, 
afraid that graceful creature with black eyes 
may race away into the rainbow sky 
when luminous phantom offers her fruit. 

Stretching her arms after sitting five hours 
drawing panels for her graphic webtoon 
that features Enitha at dawn of time, 
Sakura wanders in slippers and pink robe 
to the kitchen where she drinks apple juice, 
yet luminous phantom floats in her mind. 

Watching cars glide on busy road below, 
Sakura ponders how her cute fantasy tale 
should progress that displays her character 
as fragile girl with cautious innocence 
who grows strong when she faces obstacles 
so luminous phantom blooms in her heart. 

Beams Of Psychometric Light

Beams Of Psychometric Light
© Surazeus
2026 07 06

Framed with perspective of my curious heart 
to comprehend through formulas of thought 
atomic nature of our universe, 
Earth shines with beauty of its messiness 
that undulates in teeming mass of coils 
which spring as beams of psychometric light. 

Sun Spider Goddess, bright Solaria, 
weaves our planet from beams of flashing light 
which nurtures our organic body form 
animated by spirit in our brain 
that conjures virtual model of the world 
designed by ideas of words we speak. 

Earth Angel Goddess, brave Telluria, 
molds our body from assertive lust 
so we evolve four hundred million years 
from fish to newt to mouse to cat to ape 
to wingless angel striving to be God 
in quest to gain enlightenment through love. 

I feel bright energy of timeless light 
from countless stars across the universe 
pulse vigorously in every crystal cell 
that constitutes contraption of my being 
as spiritual machine of divine soul 
that wakes cosmic mind in my mortal brain. 

Ascending rugged foothills of respect 
near majesty of Mount Takoma peak, 
I gaze at crescent moon of innocence 
that gleams in sparkling mirror of the pool 
where timeless song of truth vibrates as song 
that tunes strings of my heart with stoic faith. 

Clear mountain wind fills hearts of travelers 
with haunting rapture of brave Seraphim 
whose hearts observe sublime beauty of Earth 
which emanates from every fragile soul 
that glimmers through organic form of thought 
woven from beams of psychometric light. 

Though every creature of organic form, 
that glows this hour on spinning Earth of light, 
will vanish into swirls of mindless dust, 
we shine alive as flame of ardent faith 
with tender dignity of star-eyed hope, 
endowed with secret name of psychic code. 

Since I will one day disappear at death 
and vanish beyond nothingness of time, 
I strum the holy Lyre of Mercury 
in way Orpheus taught me to perform, 
and sing grand epic of philosophers 
about our human quest to know the truth. 

Mountain of Dancing Trees

Mountain of Dancing Trees
© Surazeus
2026 07 06

Through stories we tell about life on Earth 
we program our children with moral code 
how to perceive beauty in changing forms 
if we have found enlightenment of truth 
through ideology that blinds our eyes 
to see gods on mountain of dancing trees. 

Reversing point of view with mirror eyes 
through oscillation of opposing thoughts, 
we measure angles of disparate truths 
since verity depends on vantage point 
so experience points to more complex whole 
that we map on mountain of dancing trees. 

Too many facets of one diamond gem 
refract apparent opposites in view 
so different angles of one whole event 
appear to contradict analysis, 
therefore I puzzle fragments in one truth 
when I play on mountain of dancing trees. 

Each concept I retrieve from pool of facts 
provides one disunited piece of life 
which I collage in mural of grand truth 
connecting unrelated data points 
in fluctuating web of certainties 
that blossoms on mountain of dancing trees. 

Embodiment of gear-wound paradox 
in complex personas our brains design, 
I explore purple mountain majesties 
to understand courage of bravery 
when people with much help people with naught 
to dwell safe on mountain of dancing trees. 

Quiet mathematics of selfless love 
calculates investment without return 
when people help each other generate 
food and goods from minerals of the Earth 
that fuels function of social enterprise 
we settle on mountain of dancing trees. 

Toward inaudible light of pulsing hearts 
we live in language of our hungry tongues 
by breathing wind of hope on river flow 
for inspiration of the garden faith 
which nurtures us with brightness of the star 
that shimmers on mountain of dancing trees. 

Brewing juice on altar of Hygia, 
I listen to young maids of Caryae sing 
hymns at the festival of Artemis 
where thousands of worshippers in white robes 
honor grace of women who create life 
in temple on mountain of dancing trees. 

Mind Machinery Of Heaven

Mind Machinery Of Heaven
© Surazeus
2026 07 05

When mind machinery of Heaven programs 
my brain to perceive world of seething forms, 
cluttered with people searching for their souls, 
I wander trapped by hush of evening skies 
where dead star tries to teach me how to shine, 
but I steal the last apple from the snake. 

When I hear the wind whisper secret names 
I laugh as the river answers with jokes, 
though gloom spills across rooftops of despair, 
tangled in telephone wires of regret, 
and into mouths of strangers without books 
who wait for bus to Hell that never comes. 

When weird river of eternity sings 
about the suffering of war refugees, 
I watch one reckless star of fate break free 
from machinery of heaven to convert 
my heart to faith in blind witch of true love 
because light survives its own loneliness. 

When Evening that wears gown of silver mist 
hangs black pomegranate of urgent faith 
above the crowded graveyard of dead gods, 
new star of wisdom opens wounded heart 
as fountain flowing with honey and milk 
that could heal spirits of the traumatized. 

When Tree of Knowledge drops another branch, 
that represents how close relationships 
could be severed by words of bitter fear, 
I attribute fracture of honest hearts 
to wordless mathematics of regret 
which realigns our quest for paradise. 

When turbulent concern of ardent hope 
unspools established legacy of trust, 
I wander lost in cluttered field of lies 
with lamp some old philosopher gave me 
that casts uncanny rays of false insight 
on faces twisted with uncertainty. 

When I hide in cathedral of glass masks, 
where light rays slant against logical sense, 
I gather fragments of discarded tales 
and puzzle them in vast collage of truths 
which almost forms coherent view of life 
till wind blows leaves of grass in lake of dreams. 

When horse of sorrow on the signless road 
reveals weird secret of building dream worlds, 
I populate Garden of Eden with ghosts 
of innocent people killed in cruel wars 
so I can pretend they live happily 
in perfect Heaven of my fantasy. 

Star Vision Of Kaskalkur

Star Vision Of Kaskalkur
© Surazeus
2026 07 05

Stuck in dream machine of psychotic words 
that conjure visions in my clacking brain, 
I stroll the busy streets of Everytown 
to ask River Witch in Cave of Despair 
why she remembers when my soul was born, 
but Kaskalkur just chuckles with sly grin. 

With eyes that flash bright television screens, 
she gives me glass of water with sweet sneer 
that she drew from dark underwater stream 
which fills my heart with weird demonic light 
that makes it swell huge as lead zeppelin, 
so I ask Kaskalkur to marry me. 

Through complex network of underworld streams, 
fueled by dark water of her big cow eyes, 
I soar on sun-blackened albatross wings 
to wake demonic energy of love 
from spinning iron core of Mother Earth 
who throws my fragile body in the world. 

When Kaskalkur gets on the morning bus 
to work at library of long-lost books, 
she finds herself surrounded on all sides 
by grim-faced Myrmidons wearing red caps 
who praise Agamemnon as noble king 
though he hides his palsied face with gold mask. 

Inspired by star vision of Kaskalkur, 
which presents history of humanity 
as mothers tending gardens of fruit trees, 
I analyze strange economic trends, 
combined through geospatial datasets, 
to understand hunger of human hearts. 

Because my mother at hour of my birth 
named me Apaliunas, star-eyed hunter, 
I trap demonic spirits of the heart 
and transform them to honest laborers 
who build the shining walls of Ilium 
as duty to protect wise Kaskalkur. 

In Washington did Jupiter decree 
construction of Olympus from god bones 
where Alph, the oil-polluted river, runs 
down through caverns measureless to man 
where Kaskalkur enslaves tyrants and kings 
who abused right of their authority. 

Ancestral voices prophesy new war 
so I climb Mount Abora with my ghost 
where Kaskalkur plays dulcimer of hope 
for patriotic hearts to rise from fear 
and cast King Midas from the throne of gold 
when dome of power crumbles into lies. 

Our Utopian Fantasy

Our Utopian Fantasy
© Surazeus
2026 07 05

Heaven is our Utopian fantasy 
that represents communal town of peace 
where noble principles of honest work 
bind hearts of every person with brave trust 
for all are equal in their privilege 
where no king need enforce justice through law. 

Of all the goddesses who lived on Earth, 
mortal women whose personalities 
radiate through eidolon of their bright souls 
in characters preserved in ancient myths, 
I remember sweet Pinikir the most, 
goddess of the night who knows names of stars. 

Lost in the ancient swirling dust of time, 
wise women who once ruled their garden states, 
Nanaya, Ishara, Allani, Ishtar, 
Hutena, Hutellura, Ashtart, Isis, 
Ninatta, Kulitta, Manzat, and Hat-Hor, 
haunt my weird dreams with star-glow of their souls. 

Each goddess chronicled in ancient myths 
was once some living woman in the flesh 
who managed communal estate of farmers 
from temple perched on high-built ziggurat 
where she administered economy 
to operate food-production machine. 

Since Garden of Eden in lush Sumer 
humans have built cities with sunbaked bricks, 
Ur, Uruk, Eridu, Nippur, Lagash, 
where hierarchies of power develop 
so Goddess of Wisdom administrates 
warriors to protect workers who create. 

I see Gilgamesh, standing on high hill 
in shadow of El, first ruler of one state, 
work to defend rulership of Ishtar 
as guard of the garden where fruit trees bloom, 
but every city men have built from brick 
has vanished into swirling dust of time. 

No city humans build with bleeding hands 
will ever match our boldest fantasy 
as Utopian Heaven of equal rights, 
yet we keep striving to perfect our ways 
through institutions of fair government 
to maintain justice and freedom for all. 

Bright Heaven of communal polity 
that we imagine as Utopia, 
where every person enjoys equal rights, 
presents pure state of civil enterprise 
as blueprint for messy cities of Earth 
to model functions of good government. 

Frothing Fantasy Of Faith

Frothing Fantasy Of Faith
© Surazeus
2026 07 05

Assertive passion to survive and thrive 
drives us down winding road of starry goals 
so through the cluttered years of middle age 
we strive with frantic passion to succeed 
when we build frothing fantasy of faith 
based on fiction of our Heaven on Earth. 

Reborn as Apollonian ironist, 
sparked by collision of opposing forces 
between structured beauty of ordered faith 
and chaos of nihilistic despair, 
I balance oscillating energies 
to channel terror through religious hymns. 

Striving to contain mental urgencies 
with drive for structured beauty of calm order, 
I recognize that my ultimate truths 
are founded on unstable fantasies, 
so I craft beautiful fictions of truth 
that I find necessary to live well. 

Contriving concept of philosophy 
through linguistic psychology of ideas 
that material objects of atomic force 
are molded by ideal concepts of thought, 
I drive my car along highway of hope 
to cartograph the world in map of truth. 

Between wild dance of Dionysian passion 
and ordered march of Apollonian research, 
I bind eternal spirit of my genes 
with fragile grace of this body I train 
to maintain constant vibrancy of change 
which generates my artificial world. 

With Apollonian irony of faith 
I channel my existential detachment 
into creation of deliberate form 
through ceaseless endurance of discipline 
till I master craft of molding weird dreams 
in structured Gothinettes of prophecy. 

When I climb mountain peak of global insight, 
I gaze back down my road of evolution 
from fish to newt to mouse to cat to monkey 
to ape to wingless angel singing spells 
that conjure frothing fantasy of faith 
as wine I drink while strumming Lyre of Phoebus. 

How strange to feel myself alive this hour, 
one grape-node on long vine of ancestry 
as body replicating code of genes 
that urges me to generate new child 
so immortal soul of atomic mind 
lives again in our quest to become god. 

Emerald Eyes Of Truth

Emerald Eyes Of Truth
© Surazeus
2026 07 04

After running out of weird things to say 
the old woman with hair birds use for nests 
sits under willow tree of normalcy 
and contemplates how angels procreate 
by weaving rays of light between their hearts, 
then sings to turtles in the sparkling pond. 

Granddaughter of Mercurius Artaius, 
the old woman with skin of scallop shells 
sews bearskin robe for her daughter Andarta 
who carves steamed planks to build new river boat 
while whistling tunes she hears birds sing at dawn, 
then mumbles about aches of her old age. 

After gathering mushrooms, eggs, and herbs, 
the old woman with emerald eyes of truth 
brews honey wine in cauldron on hot flames 
which she pours in each grail that people bear 
when they stand in line and give her gold coins 
stamped with face of Artaius King of Bears. 

Strumming strings on lyre of Mercurius, 
the old woman with bat wings in her heart 
declares to dancing crowd with ancient voice 
that she is daughter of wise Cybele 
who dwells in cavern of the star-eyed ghost 
from which she rules tribes of Vocontia. 

Shielding her daughter Andarta from harm, 
the old woman with granite breast of faith 
defies fierce gang of boys with sharpened spears 
who shout that Jupiter on throne of gold 
sent them to assassinate Dea Augusta 
because she dares claim goddess state of mind. 

Clutching her breast that gushes blood of fear, 
the old woman with rune-enchanting hands 
lies wounded in arms of daughter Andarta 
while her son, incarnation of Artaius, 
battles and kills assassins with sharp sword 
forged by his father Mulciber from steel. 

Crowning her daughter the new Cybele, 
the old woman with blood of ocean waves 
sinks into flashing gloom of nothingness 
while new-crowned Cybele Andarta grips 
scepter of power with bright emerald eye 
and leads warriors to defend their land. 

After killing the kidnappers and thieves, 
the young woman with emerald eyes of truth 
asserts her right to reign as Cybele 
in mountain cavern of the star-eyed ghost 
managed by her new husband Lucifer 
as warden who administers jewel mines. 

Celestial Math Of Faith

Celestial Math Of Faith
© Surazeus
2026 07 04

Awed by weird song of crickets in the night, 
Belenus gazes high at sparkling stars 
to calculate celestial math of faith 
by which he chronicles the rise and fall 
of ancient nations based on flash of rain 
where gold moon gleams in ruins of the church. 

Descended from Icarus the Sky-Walker, 
Belenus clings to jagged cliff of faith 
and shouts at Zephyrus with arms of air 
for help to ascend steep terrible heights 
so he can walk lush hills of paradise 
to meet his mother in Elysium. 

Amazed at fields of wheat blown by sea wind, 
Belenus walks with his college best friend, 
Zephyrus with long hair of tangled curls, 
and tells him names of every family clan 
that lives in each tall castle on high hill 
where flowers bloom along the River Styx. 

Startled by appearance of the swift hawk, 
Belenus holds his breath with graceful calm 
when she lands on his arm and flaps her wings, 
because her eyes reflect the timeless stars, 
then gasps when she leaps toward the glowing clouds, 
wild angel with celestial math of faith. 

Alert when Martes and his gang appear, 
Belenus joins Zephyrus by large stone 
where they crouch ready with intent to fight 
in brave defense of land where fruit trees bloom, 
still loyal to bold brotherhood of friends, 
till Seraphina commands they desist. 

Inspired by flashing silver of her eyes, 
Belenus beams at angel in white robe 
who guides them through fields of Elysium 
to garden where his mother tends pear trees, 
who flies into his arms with shocked delight, 
then offers them fresh wine by sparkling pool. 

Surprised by joy of fireworks in the sky, 
Belenus with his mother and best friend 
join feast to celebrate with song and dance 
birth of their state eight hundred years long ago 
when wise Elysus lead his wandering tribe 
across the waste land to lush hills of lakes. 

Impressed at founding tale of their great state, 
Belenus tells Zephyrus with proud voice 
how brave Elysus, bearing wand of truth, 
fought cruel Erebus on the river shore, 
then founded Garden of Elysium 
based soundly on celestial math of faith. 

Institute Of Proper Truth

Institute Of Proper Truth
© Surazeus
2026 07 04

Now that I have returned from Hell, and work 
as scribe for Institute of Proper Truth, 
I see strange beauty in the grim parade 
of dead men singing in the blazing sun 
who march majestically to Kingdom Come 
with dreary loyalty to long-dead kings. 

Far beyond present swirl of circumstance 
I see great wrongs committed by cruel thieves 
who pilfer national treasures from our hearts 
against grand principles of honesty 
on which our old republic wobbles weak, 
which we must clear away to build anew. 

I hear no fierce cadence of marching feet 
in sprawling suburbs sea to shining sea 
where frightened men in rusty trucks of hope 
buy phony timeshares to the Afterlife, 
then sell their hard-won rights and liberties 
to gain fleeting sense of security. 

I know grim sorrows of my fellow men, 
hearts gripped by plan to build brave walls of stone 
on fruit-tree mounds around the bubbling well 
so we may keep our precious families safe 
within safe-haven pale of paradise 
that we have built on hard paternal skulls. 

Now that I sneak lost in Heaven, and work 
as spy for Institute of Proper Truth, 
I hear mercurial wail of lonely souls 
in ancient songs across America 
expressing joys and sorrows of their hearts 
with faith our old democracy will last. 

Outside cracked window of my small-town home 
I hear no boom of bombs bursting in air 
on this side of the wild Atlantic Ocean, 
yet flowers bloom from sun-parched soil of fate 
in hills along the green Oconee River 
far from the misty hills of Avalon. 

While I hear snap of striped flags in the breeze 
that ruffles ocean waves with sparkling foam, 
I smell sweet scent of meat on crackling grills 
and laughter of young children who play chase, 
so I strum new guitar and sing weird tune 
that echoes cars on highways to the moon. 

With laughter of the normal citizen 
we celebrate birth of democracy, 
yet lament threat of fascist tyranny 
on this hour two hundred and fifty years 
since we declared independence from greed. 
so I share watermelons with you all. 

Rebirth Of America

Rebirth Of America
© Surazeus
2026 07 04

I was eleven, fifty years ago, 
on the two hundredth birthday of this nation, 
descended from Pilgrims and Puritans 
who sailed across wild seas in fragile boats 
to escape oppression of kings and priests 
and live through freedom and justice for all. 

Believing we had found Garden of Eden, 
new paradise in the lush wilderness, 
we built our city shining on the hill, 
founded firm on the noble principle 
that every person born on Earth is equal, 
free to live as they will, if they harm none. 

Through revolution against greedy king, 
we built new nation of farmers and craftsmen, 
expanding west from sea to shining sea 
through scope of our democratic republic 
based on liberty and justice for all, 
to welcome refugees from every land. 

Through civil war against plantation kings 
we freed people they enslaved from cruel chains, 
expanding civil rights for every soul 
in brave demonstrations against hate 
because every human born on this Earth 
should be equal in just eyes of the law. 

Twelve score and ten years ago our ancestors 
brought forth on this continent, we colonized, 
our new nation, conceived in Liberty, 
and dedicated to the proposition 
that all humans are born equal on Earth, 
who may live as they will, if they harm none. 

Now we are engaged, with startled surprise, 
in another civil war against hate, 
testing our resolve to maintain our rights 
to life and liberty for every soul, 
so we must dedicate, with firm resolve, 
our hearts to make sure this nation endures. 

We are resolved with honest faith of hope 
that this old nation we have long admired 
shall glow with new birth of freedom through love 
so this government, hijacked by tyranny, 
shall be restored with wisdom of our hearts 
of the people, by the people, and for the people. 

Now I lived sixty one years on this Earth, 
descended thirteen fertile generations 
four hundred years of constant social change 
from wise Puritan Poet Anne Bradstreet, 
so with Minerva, Goddess of Liberty, 
I celebrate rebirth of America. 

Beacon Of My Destiny

Beacon Of My Destiny
© Surazeus
2026 07 03

Blinded by beacon of my destiny, 
I walk the signless road to Wonderland, 
but stop somewhere in hills of Avalon 
to question why I need to find my soul, 
so I turn around and go somewhere else, 
and live quietly by the Lake of Dreams. 

Guided by beacon of my destiny, 
I follow winding River of Desire 
from undulating swirl of ocean waves, 
through endless woods of shadow-glowing ghosts, 
up rugged slopes where laughing winds dance wild, 
to stand on Peak of Wisdom without words. 

Disturbed by beacon of my destiny, 
I wake from strange dream of the city maze 
where countless people tell me secret tales 
so I can find the treasure of the crow 
who always watches how I live my life, 
then leaves my lost key on my tombless grave. 

Convinced by beacon of my destiny 
that I am savior of the world reborn, 
I work my whole life as mute janitor 
cleaning classrooms where high-school children learn 
clean white-washed history of America 
portrayed as good policeman of the world. 

Confused by beacon of my destiny, 
I walk the wrong way down fake road of life 
against ambitious current of the times 
in vain rebellion against games of power 
by leaving all possessions on the house 
where brave ghost of electricity weeps. 

Inspired by beacon of my destiny, 
I leave expected trail of normal life 
and wander lost in wilderness of lies 
where I meet children of forgotten spies 
who carve state secrets on trunks of dead trees 
and eat Honey of Faith from wounded hearts. 

Perplexed by beacon of my destiny, 
I campaign for role of World President 
by promising universal healthcare, 
free education to doctoral degrees, 
and Latin names that shine with dignity 
on door of home where every human lives. 

Deceived by beacon of my destiny, 
I journey down into valley of Hell, 
climb Mount Purgatory to Peak of Faith, 
then soar on Wings of Icarus to Heaven 
where I play Lyre of Mercury with jazz, 
lost in the fantasy that I am real. 

Wear Mask Of Faunus

Wear Mask Of Faunus
© Surazeus
2026 07 03

Because Death always walks my road with me 
beyond eccentric scope of my perception 
I choose to twist despair through charity 
with shocking sorrow of the revelation 
that God is shadow of our darkest fear 
we cast against fractured mirror of Heaven. 

Strange evils writhing in cave of my heart 
cry out with loathing of expert obsession 
at monstrous beauty of my mental chart 
crucial to state of amorous possession 
so with Pygmalion craft I mold her soul 
from seething chaos of stellar creation. 

As jester in mad world of broken souls 
I go on journey to the kingless nation, 
where I am both the stranger and the town, 
to peddle tickets to the fake salvation 
in holy war conducted by the priest 
who leads lost thieves to fight the revolution. 

When I arrive in valley of the dolls, 
who wear masks of beauty to veil confusion, 
I spark their souls awake with ardent chant 
so they can choose their lifestyle with decision 
that flows from passion of their secret hope 
to dance with grace at my assassination. 

Since there is more to water than our tears 
that drum on jagged cliffs from frantic ocean 
we roar with laughter at the puppeteers 
who fool us all to drink faith-poisoned potion 
so we cry out at brink of empty creed 
when God declares his laws with humble thunder. 

Brave Goddess of the Sun with star-bright eyes 
appears from cloud of swirling elocution 
to sing with ardent shock of spectacle 
that no divine mind drives constant motion 
of atoms swerving into tangled coils 
through chemicals of genes that flash our spirits. 

Though I am pilgrim on the signless road, 
who maps too many ways around weird Heaven, 
I sense Truth Demon pulsing through the land 
born as mercurial tune my heart has driven 
through honest witness to no miracles 
except generative power of Nature. 

Sharp rattle of the mountain waterfall 
shocks my urban-numb heart awake with passion 
so I wear mask of Faunus when I dance 
with graceful clumsiness of mortal human 
fueled alive with divine spirit of light 
that gleams with corrupt purity of wisdom.