Code of Cassandra

Code of Cassandra
© Surazeus
2026 08 23

To live well in this crazy world of lies 
I follow Code of Cassandra with care 
by writing riddles of satiric faith 
that guide my way in maze of clashing wills 
when I attempt to navigate with class 
opposing forces of partisan pride. 

I will never explain arcane details 
that compose Code of Cassandra with keys 
designed to unlock doors of potent facts 
essential to assemble from word gears 
financial engine of social exchange 
by which we journey to the Promised Land. 

Dynamic order of exotic scale 
now blueprints Code of Cassandra as guide 
for angels to construct our new world view 
providing mental tools of clever sight 
for every human mind to analyze 
state of the world with honest strategies. 

If we decide with hope to certify 
patterns in Code of Cassandra that ply 
melodious vibes of nominal respect, 
we should administer objective laws 
designed to monitor momentous growth 
as brave liaison to Queen Liberty. 

Since children dancing on the broken door 
intimate Code of Cassandra reveals 
logistic course of learning based on gems, 
we might orchestrate stoic privacy 
for every person who renders dream aid 
to faceless ghosts with severe innocence. 

Permission to transcend our fragile souls, 
allowed by Code of Cassandra with drive 
that motivates our ploy for excellence, 
alarms soul-controlling faction of fools 
who try to block our most lucrative deals 
when we found another franchise of faith. 

Module of lifetime mortgages entraps 
normalized Code of Cassandra with proof 
we now are simple singers on lit stage 
expressing hidden angst of human hearts 
who struggle to succeed against all odds 
since the system is rigged against false faith. 

Since vital flash of my spirit suggests 
schedule for Code of Cassandra to spool 
complex networks of interacting minds 
spread across the spectrum of divine types, 
I analyze intensity of hope 
to reprogram how my brain perceives you. 

Library Of The Laughing Book

Library Of The Laughing Book
© Surazeus
2026 08 23

To paint the color of soft river sand 
with simple sorrow of the happy girl 
who loves to dance among the apple trees, 
she asks Icarus with butterfly voice 
if he will teach her body how to fly, 
but his open mouth shimmers ocean full. 

Strange gleam of sunlight on the asphalt street 
reveals true nature of gossamer thoughts 
which veil her body on lawn of wet grass 
before library of the laughing book 
which records in writhing runes of the real 
sad tale of every soul who ever lived. 

Before Tara can escape the empty church, 
the vampire disguised as priest in black robe 
traps her spirit as the white butterfly 
who flutters desperately in the glass jar 
which Joshua taps when he visits at dusk 
when he searches for how she disappeared. 

Grinning at clever joke the vampire priest 
tells to hypnotize him with snake eyes, 
Joshua pulls hat low over his pale face 
and fillips river stone that cracks the jar 
just as the priest shrieks in terrible rage 
so she flies away as he dodges claws. 

Holding hands with firm compassion of trust, 
Tara and Joshua run over the field 
among cows of melancholy desire 
while the priest transforms into thirsty bat 
that chases them when clouds hide the bright moon 
till they hide in her cave on the lake shore. 

Clutching oak wand he carved into sharp point, 
Joshua gazes in eyes of Tara, green 
as thick moss on the river stone of faith, 
then lunges at dark shadow of despair 
to stab the priest straight through his rotten heart, 
who writhes and shrieks till his soul dissipates. 

Digging behind the church in morning light, 
dozens of grim villagers excavate 
unmarked graves of young girls who disappeared, 
kidnapped and abused by the smiling priest, 
whose rotten body on the grass decays, 
and mothers weep over skulls of their daughters. 

Time reveals color of soft river sand 
when rainbows shimmer over wind-blown woods 
so Tara calls her children to come in 
who hop and flap their arms like Icarus, 
then gather at the table of calm faith 
to eat sandwiches and drink apple juice. 

Court Of Mental Guilt

Court Of Mental Guilt
© Surazeus
2026 08 23

Not too sublime for engine of the car 
to allocate resources for rebirth 
when we, from gnarly trees emerge unscathed, 
prefer to play chess in the living room 
though planes drop bombs on houses somewhere near, 
for we are frail as flowers in mute fear. 

Concern for how far angels fall each day 
diverts attention of our daily prayers 
to fractured state of global politics 
which sparks new paradigms from social change 
when hordes of people clash in cyber war 
over whose world view describes the real world. 

No bells are heard in leafy neighborhoods 
from churches crowded on the summer day 
when devils wearing masks of holiness 
preach salvation only for those who pay 
tithes to the institution based on lies 
that we will resurrect from graves of muck. 

When Alice returns home from Wonderland 
she finds work at the Pegasus Cafe 
brewing coffee for officers and clowns 
who play their roles in court of mental guilt 
that keeps society functioning well 
in game of fame between lawyers and thieves. 

Too often children who chase butterflies 
get lost in lush hills of Arcadia 
that shimmers as the Otherworld of Faith 
behind facade of this real modern world 
where orcs in banks and elves in galleries 
compete for profit from the vampire god. 

As agent of Talamasca, I search 
dark alleyways for ghosts of ancient gods 
who walk this world in standard human form 
for we embody energies of myth 
composed of tropes that replay old soul wars, 
even when I buy beef sandwich and juice. 

Under old oak tree in the city park 
across the street from office where I work, 
I eat lunch with Bacchus and Icarus 
who ask if I want to participate 
in heist of treasure from museum hall 
where masks of gods hang on the blood-smeared wall. 

I just want to map history of mankind 
in quiet library where screaming ghosts 
attempt to set distorted records straight 
till words in books bleed into honey bees 
that swarm the crowded streets of everywhere 
with sublime hum of engine in the car. 

Bend Bows Of Justice

Bend Bows Of Justice
© Surazeus
2026 08 22

Stories from history books bleed in my eyes 
so I ask the moon raven to hire spies 
trained in the art of painting psychic masks 
with features of demons trapped in wine casks 
who want to teach in the college of fools 
how to adjust engines with mental tools. 

When I visit ancient city of spires, 
where angels twist books into rubber tires, 
Persephone comes from the underworld 
to show me where river dragons lie curled 
as if to fertilize our minds with dreams 
about how we better survive in teams. 

With each satiric joke of solemn truth, 
carved on temple walls by messiah sleuth, 
my tricks dismantle your poetic code 
which helps us navigate the open road 
to understand pain of love in divorce 
though we stick strictly to the moral course. 

Haloed by immense glow of timeless hope 
where she wanders on the time-shifting slope, 
her shadow wavers on the mountain ridge 
as she directs construction of the bridge 
that links our souls over abyss of love 
till angels descend from Heaven above. 

When Rama and Odysseus first meet 
on cliffs of Moher to fight the space fleet, 
they bend bows of justice with hearts of faith 
to shoot words of wisdom at the star wraith 
which liberates Sita and Penelope 
who prepare the fast with their recipe. 

Through taste of copper, bitter in my mouth, 
when ghosts of sorrow haunt homes of the south, 
I climb the highest mountain on this globe, 
dressed only in white hermit-mission robe, 
to seek salvation from ethereal breath 
so I accept finality of death. 

In vast cavern near Sagarmatha peak 
I find the ancient truth my fathers seek 
that skull of every man who reigned as king, 
stored in glass palace where blind angels sing 
sits silent on extensive rows of shelves, 
polished and labeled by professor elves. 

I try to map flow of human events 
through policies of kings and presidents, 
but history was built by the commoner, 
from the farmer to the dream carpenter, 
and by women who cook meals everyday 
while their children in the fruit garden play. 

Faceless Ghosts Of Vanity

Faceless Ghosts Of Vanity
© Surazeus
2026 08 22

With elegant grace of artistic faith 
I stroll awed along labyrinthine streets 
over sculptured bridge of the timeless river 
in majestic city of golden light 
where sun-bleached marble temples crown high hills 
as silent sentinels of grand events. 

On time-worn cobblestones of urgent care, 
where centuries of footsteps echo soft, 
I wander slow past weathered stone facades 
encrusted with dust of eras long past, 
to explore crumbling palaces of pride 
where spirits of antiquity watch me. 

Beneath palimpsest of history I read 
tales of many generations concealed 
in monumental plays of fortitude, 
performed by long-forgotten dynasties 
in chronicles of sorrow etched in stone 
by endless wind of change that knows my name. 

Anchored in bedrock of brave principles 
on foundation fused in soil of desire, 
this sprawling palace of some tyrant king 
arrests the natural landscape with contempt, 
now heavy with unspeakable despair 
that still asserts authority of death. 

Despite bombastic arrogance of time 
that crushes dynasties of kings to dust, 
I stroll with ostentatious obviousness 
that my genetic coils of spirit grief 
unravel from flesh of those royal fools 
who crowned themselves great rulers over fate. 

Awake this prayerless hour of vivid hope 
in open-air archive of human triumph, 
that pulses still beneath ruins of fate, 
I explore grand monument of endurance, 
that looms proud against erosion of time, 
at veil worn thin between me and the past. 

These standard feelings of the long-gone past, 
that shimmers in sunrays on feet-worn streets, 
stir in hearts of every human being 
who visits ancient cities of the world, 
so I must laugh that my heart feels them too, 
though I wear mask of innocent respect. 

Trapped by nostalgia for time-unspooled past, 
I photograph with eye-phone of my heart 
myself before grand monuments to pride 
where men who played god on stage of this city 
are now but faceless ghosts of vanity 
whose selfish commands whisper in the breeze. 

Safe Environment Of Hope

Safe Environment Of Hope
© Surazeus
2026 08 22

My frail heart swells with pungent gratitude, 
derived from experience of old age, 
that I have been able, with sturdy faith, 
to maintain safe environment of hope 
for my children to thrive through confidence, 
brave in haven of my protective tomb. 

Productive chaos stirring urban scenes 
secures deep source of energetic growth 
for people joined in contract of concern 
to thrive through dynamic communities 
preserving spirit of brave pioneers 
rooted in soil by hands of founding pride. 

Assertion of pure motive to create 
enough food for every soul to consume 
stirs sublime respect in all open hearts 
for strong beauty of cooperative work 
that binds immigrating strangers of fate 
in prosperous communes through liberty. 

Careful attention of our aching hearts 
conjures from soil of humble nothingness 
flourishing success of fertile desire 
that blooms ripe from desolate afternoons 
as temporary stay against mute death 
that always haunts celebrations of life. 

Sweet music of encoding instruments 
rings brightly in narrow streets of regret 
through durable discipline we direct 
to increase enrollment of carefree joy 
when spark of exotic passion expends 
secret equity of luxurious play. 

Lured by our host of mechanical mirth, 
we follow Bacchus and his prancing pard 
through winding streets of tragic loyalty, 
despite portable ordinance of greed, 
in frantic game exchanging oxygen 
based on scholarship of romantic sport. 

Though we cavort on fluid stage of fate 
to exercise free will of hard-won choice, 
awake on rugged coast of nonchalance, 
we must divorce our jagged hearts of hope 
from heart-entrapping game of synergy 
since rocky cliffs of gray seas understand. 

Alone in meadow of the weeping tree, 
I gather blackberries with trembling hands, 
then sit beneath the willow tree with swans 
and feast on sweet catastrophe of faith 
that children of my tangled genes will thrive 
long after I disappear in mute wind. 

Alone Tree Of Fate

Alone Tree Of Fate
© Surazeus
2026 08 22

No black rain is falling on this bright day 
while I walk to the Alone Tree of fate 
so I can translate prophecies of change 
sung by the hissing wind of emptiness 
that batters melancholy homes of hope 
where people eat at the table of faith. 

Though spiders in the garden of lost souls 
search for my heart in shadow of the clock, 
the shepherd who finds body of his wife 
decayed in bushes by the gushing stream 
breaks the silence of God with wordless curse 
that transforms his bones into twisted steel. 

When he wanders in the pasture with cows, 
the shepherd who programs computer games 
hears crystal angels singing in tall trees, 
so he gathers trash of their broken wings 
in plastic bags he piles beside the road 
till dust of long-dead stars encrust his eyes. 

Sharp shots of guns echo in autumn woods 
where angels run in trees of bloody bones 
so ravens shriek from fragments of their mouths 
in wild laments of shattered innocence 
with prayers to clouds inhabited by gods 
who laugh with joy at causing men to fight. 

Trapped in the solitary hour of death, 
the shepherd with gun of religious pride 
considers wetness of tall hungry grass 
when Bacchus dances on his empty grave 
with sober clarity of evening hymns 
that eyeless devils sing with pious faith. 

He kneels and touches blueness of the stream 
with anguish at the desolate secrecy 
preserved in neatness of the garden path 
where toads of panic meditate all night 
against dire quietness of his cold breath 
so he clamps ears against rustle of leaves. 

Bright destitution of his childhood days 
returns with brittle innocence of love 
at that dark hour when eyes of seers expand 
with muffled clang of bells in empty church 
where angels wear masks of children we name 
before they sink in muck of holy war. 

Trapped in their mournful pilgrimage to Hell, 
the people of the nation blessed by God 
lie down together on the shattered plain 
and stare at nothingness of glowing screens 
that flash elusive visions of world peace 
till we become the gods we idolize. 

We Build Another Troy

We Build Another Troy
© Surazeus
2026 08 21

From Troy our urgent mission to survive 
drives our wheeled train of homeless refugees 
to follow Venus sailing her moon boat 
across abyss of hope to colonize 
pristine gardens where ghost of Eden gleams 
from dire emergency of tolling bells. 

Through telescope of innocent respect 
we search for secret code in random stars 
that map our noble purpose with faint flash 
assembled in grand puzzle of desire 
to measure slow sequential flow of time 
beyond intense unraveling of fate. 

Indifferent audience of angels laughs 
at cosmic foibles noble heroes play 
while sanctioned by brave eagles of world war 
who lead parades of our triumphant loss 
against dark shadows in reflected glass 
of faceless enemies we fight each day. 

Of my first disobedience against pride, 
and fruit of my achievements soured by guilt, 
I sing with harp of David in my hands 
while lost in yellow woods of urgent faith 
where I pause at cracked tomb of Oedipus 
to ponder failure of our social dream. 

Wise oracle of concupiscent grace 
expresses stoic principles of calm 
with incandescent dance of mental vibes 
at trick of fame by tarot cards dealt lies 
exposing counterfeit creeds angels sell 
through prank of toxic masculinity. 

When kingdom-killing prophet of the laugh 
reveals sly bluff the Blindman conjugates, 
we strive to fathom absolute expanse 
of spaceless straightness tangled by fake words 
that throws our bodies on light curve of change 
so we hold hands from gates of paradise. 

Each time grand towers of bright Ilium 
are burned by agents of cruel tyranny, 
we build another Troy with bleeding hands 
to manage empire of corporate stores 
that binds our paths through corridors of time 
till we assemble in one church of wealth. 

When mantra-minded flower child of fate 
arrives from Underworld of bitter truth 
to fix machinery of the star-wound soul, 
contrived as psychic dynamo of faith, 
I publish odes of sorrow on the wall 
so ghosts of heroes hide in wordless books. 

Bitter Prayers Of Fantasies

Bitter Prayers Of Fantasies
© Surazeus
2026 08 21

After turning key of uncertainty 
I ask the honey bees of innocence 
to find home burned by soldiers of despair 
who barricade their hearts with polished stones 
fractured from idols of their social gods 
who feed on bitter prayers of fantasies. 

There is no substance in our enmities 
we gather to replace faint hopes of love, 
yet we ask honey bees of arrogance 
to build their hives of passion-pilfered wealth 
in home now empty of our family ghosts 
whose hearts lead them to wander windy hills. 

In ninth Troy of America we dwell, 
secure in tower where Rapunzel sings, 
whose anguish catches it afire this hour, 
though we continue with our daily lives 
through certain faith that noble minds prevail 
though faceless Helen walks the Earth again. 

Dark weeds grow from pavestones of social power 
where Brigid herds sheep on the White House lawn, 
and sings enchanting prophecies of doom 
while I play broken lyre of Mercury, 
yet she decides to give out fish and bread 
to people homeless from social collapse. 

No dream of paradise could paralyze 
our good intentions for democracy 
in noble mission to replace all kings 
with honest leaders whom people elect 
because they hear with brave ears of insight 
voices of the dead explain how to live. 

Heart riddled with weird light of star-blind gods, 
I hurl fierce curse of justice at the sky 
where no immense mind of the absolute 
ensures equality for every soul, 
so with eye of my brain in turbulence 
I seek moon-stark hill of electric skulls. 

Shocked by insistence of angelic wings 
that I transcend this fragile flame of flesh, 
I channel bitter prayers of fantasies 
through jubilant expressions of respect 
for brave endurance of our wounded hearts 
to face down the silver-helmed Seraphim. 

Indifferent to our solitude in time, 
the star-eyed prophet of the misty isle 
refuses to proclaim in busy streets 
crimes of the powerful who still exploit 
our bodies for profits they confiscate 
though we pray to idol of God for help. 

Empire Of Jocular Play

Empire Of Jocular Play
© Surazeus
2026 08 21

If we attempt to stop the clocks of change, 
and tangle voices in telephone lines, 
to silence celebration at dire hour 
the greedy tyrant tumbles from his throne, 
despair for life will burst from wounded hearts 
and crack the sky with fireworks of new joy. 

Contours of anguish wrapping hearts with hope 
divulge more passion than we care to show 
when we assemble on mist-flurried shore 
with plan to conjure from abysmal gloom 
new demon of despair to haunt our land 
and shadow our great nation with blind faith. 

Too many puerile farmers and bank clerks 
attempt to plaster laws across the sky 
more beautiful than carnage of world war 
when prophets wander lost in busy streets 
to find their enemy is almost dead, 
white-faced as angels they flee from in dreams. 

Yet we all pause from revelry at dawn 
to hear the starry-eye soprano sing 
heart-wrenching hymn of tragic innocence 
while gleam of Sirius, her guiding star, 
reveals the baltering torrent of our tears 
though we dance with unsteady ardency. 

Strange victory shout of cardiac respect 
may act as uncommercial catalyst 
for bold uprising of communal clans 
against incompetence of legal greed, 
yet we desert cathedrals of contempt 
to play exotic roles in public squares. 

My brain may now be vacant of old creeds, 
erased by brave endurance of concern 
in frantic storms of social dominance, 
but I shall rise from muck of sublime truth 
to rebuild empire of jocular play 
despite indulgence on the peccant stage. 

My wounded heart expands beyond its ken 
when Sibyl sings from golden cage of truth 
calm tablet-chat of arcane prophecies, 
so I translate strict formulas for wealth 
from purling laughter of clear mountain streams 
which knits immigrants in new freedom tribe. 

Since we will dwell in Land of Unconcern, 
brave bodies crushed by supple gears of change, 
fake prayers revive our souls of poisoned faith 
with mute inoculants, by angels brewed 
with brazen laughter for the shock effect 
that teaches us to value what is real. 

Sacrifice For Moral Code

Sacrifice For Moral Code
© Surazeus
2026 08 20

Because the gift of prophecy demands 
sacrifice of treasure we value most, 
I replicate with pristine character 
mask of my mundane personality 
so I become wise scapegoat for the world 
that guides attention of creative care. 

To die as sacrifice for moral code, 
contrived to manage gestures of concern 
that channels guilt of selfish procurement, 
I play role of fate-wounded sufferer 
who struggles bravely calm to overcome 
mental challenges through resilience. 

Heap all your bitter sorrows on my head 
when you expose my culpability 
presenting efforts to master deep flaws 
through bright deception you accepted well 
as proof that fragile humans with bold hearts 
may transcend limitations of our souls. 

Through my fantastic tale of daring feats, 
which I present as honest narrative 
of hard-won triumph over weaknesses, 
you offer rewards for accomplishments 
that prove all people willing to work hard 
have strength to bolster status of their fate. 

Yet heights achieved through too aggressive game 
thrust fragile sense of victory beyond base 
adjusted for safe balance of the heart, 
therefore the higher we rise through hard work 
the farther from earned merits we may fall 
and crash so hard we shatter wordlessly. 

Sharp shards of my integral sense of self, 
scattered far across fraught landscape of pride, 
fail to hope-activate magnetic coherence 
for vital principles of framed insight 
to reassemble mask of my true self 
so I become sly thief you think I am. 

Alone in gloom of my besieged framework, 
without truth-binding creed that hard work pays 
social dividends of accepted prize, 
I question nature of essential faith 
composing public person I perform 
outside containment of my stale success. 

Failure to focus fractured facts of fate 
within well-ordered system of respect 
causes my soul disperse in mocking wind 
so I sink deep into bottomless abyss 
and vanish from theater of false pride 
in sacrifice that prophesies your doom. 

Sublimity Of Self

Sublimity Of Self
© Surazeus
2026 08 20

Should time maintain vibrational concern 
for fragile bodies of our transient souls, 
I might find courage to endure sharp pain 
of this excessive hour in swirling tides 
that toss my spirit on assertive faith 
with hollow laughter of wind on shore rocks. 

Ten thousand ghosts of mocking innocence 
attack my heart with bloody beaks of fear 
that drives me to run clumsily lame-quick 
against elusive obstacles time hurls 
to hide in shuddered shadow of despair 
at throbbing pain of crippled arrogance. 

Enclosed in tightened narrowness of hope 
that crushes me to shivers of weak pride, 
I wait for ghosts of laughter to disperse, 
bored with their hunt to tear my soul apart, 
then hold my tattered sense of self in hands 
that tremble to perceive my wounded heart. 

I know death will erase me from this world 
and leave no trace of me in wordless wind 
except faint scent of terror in foul sweat 
that oozes slick from naked pores of faith 
which makes me worry my liquidized soul 
drains as tears to empty me of myself. 

Grim-hungry rocks at mouth of my small cave 
drip thirsty to devour my pungent flesh 
so I escape harsh jaws of eyeless death 
and stumble in cold evening gloom of faith 
to find safe tree where fruit of ardent joy 
supplies sweet energy of urgent hope. 

With cautious steps of careful attitude 
I slowly creep across broad field of rocks, 
that jab my naked feet with leering lust, 
toward slender gleam of light on distant ridge 
that lures me to some terrible regret 
through cold Plutonian fog of bitter angst. 

Alone in vastness of our spinning globe, 
I linger mute beneath huge jagged stone, 
and watch immensity of twinkling stars 
stream white as milk in gushing arc of light 
across enormous nothingness of desire 
so I forget sharp anguish of my pain. 

I see small purple mushroom with long hood 
stuck tight to jagged stone of timeless hope 
so I consume its slimy fruit of faith 
that swells small scope of my tear-stained eyes huge 
through stark obsession for ecstatic love 
till I become sublimity of self. 

How To Thrive With Love

How To Thrive With Love
© Surazeus
2026 08 20

Thoughts tumble over rough cliff of my mind 
to form mirror mask of shimmering calm 
that veils turmoil of feelings in my heart 
so you see placid face you want to see 
concealing soul that swirls with clarity 
while I plot how to advance my career. 

No Christ nor Arthur star in my life play 
as grand exemplars for how to behave, 
so I accept Odyssean flaws with grace 
that drive my soul against Neptunian pride 
on zealous quest to find my secret home 
that strands me on your grim Plutonian shore. 

You are my bright-eyed siren on sharp rocks 
whose heart-enchanting song of mute desire 
reveals how I lost what I most adore 
while urging me to soldier on with hope 
around obstacles of indifferent fate 
since you are beacon of my journey home. 

Frail ship of my enduring heart maintains 
integral structure of my fractured mind, 
so I stay balanced as I surf wild waves 
of constant change in fortunate progress, 
star-guided toward weird paradise I built 
as haven for your soul till I return. 

Bombs dropped from planes that laughing angels fly 
may deconstruct framework of our world view 
based on security of our hearth home, 
but kingdom of our faith consists of code 
programmed to bind our hearts with marriage vows 
as shield against invaders of our land. 

Hearts bound by loyalty of trusting love, 
we stand secure in knowledge of our faith 
that gives us strength of honest arrogance 
to endure relentless attacks of dream thieves 
so we preserve pale of our nation-state 
till haughty angels fall from flaming clouds. 

You are Calypso and Penelope 
combined in one courageous soul of hope, 
so I commission me with solemn oath 
to guard your life against oppressive greed 
of men who view your life as profit tool, 
for you are person I respect with love. 

Long after angry soldiers with cruel guns, 
sent by exploiters hiding in tall towers, 
retreat from field of battle we endure, 
we rebuild haven of our humble hearth, 
then grow again through our creative hands 
by teaching children how to thrive with love. 

Intense Desire To Live

Intense Desire To Live
© Surazeus
2026 08 19

I feel the ocean seething in my brain 
when I somersault inside the black hole 
that pulses with intense desire to live 
to wake up bound inside this coil of flesh 
that urges me to compete for fresh fruit 
so I generate life before I die. 

I feel vast emptiness of everything 
swell huge through singularity 
in still point at the center of all light 
when galaxies flare forth from flash of thought 
then spiral into strands of clicking genes 
that mold bipedal gods with grasping hands. 

I feel urge to transcend my frame of thought 
so I run laughing on long wooden dock, 
then leap high into heaven of gold clouds 
on time-rewinding wings of Icarus, 
but fate pulls me back down to solid state 
where I laugh wildly on my back in grass. 

I feel expanding scope of consciousness 
envelop Earth with gleam of mental code 
so I dream every soul who ever lives 
as universal mind of mindless self 
who sings in one harmonious melody 
hearts of eight billion separate human beings. 

Suryathi, bright-eyed Goddess of the Sun, 
ascends from gleaming fields of blooming rice 
to fly on bold Apsara wings of faith 
above vast complex of tall tower spires 
and scatters coins of gold on villages 
where farmers bless her generosity. 

Gold river dragon rises from clear stream, 
eyes gleaming bright as diamonds of star truth, 
scales writhing lithe as flames of holy thought, 
and sings uncanny spell of heart insight 
that sparks strange vision of world prophecy 
which I sing as I stroll long road of light. 

Queen Mary steps from wood ship of desire 
and strides wet stones in swirling fog of fear 
to claim with faith the jeweled crown of thorns 
she wears as wise Minerva born on Earth, 
then tells me with soft voice of ocean waves 
that I will build new kingdom of free will. 

Since I am temporary node of thought 
that vibrates spirit of genetic code 
as deathless angel in my mortal shell, 
I order hamburger with tater tots 
and eat lunch at bench in the river park, 
then play guitar and sing of human hope. 

Delusions Of Global Conquest

Delusions Of Global Conquest
© Surazeus
2026 08 19

If I should find myself under attack 
by gangs of thieves hostile to my free will, 
I may hope Aphrodite would appear 
to whisk me away in cloud of concern, 
like she sheltered Paris from Menelaus, 
because my heart is full of love for life. 

I pray to Goddess of Beauty and Love 
to veil my fragile soul of naive hope 
from social predators, armed with state laws, 
who try to scam my innocent respect 
with lucrative return on vested funds, 
and bear me to safe haven in her heart. 

Were clever Eris, Trickster of Desire, 
to toss Apple of Chaos at my feet, 
so Goddesses of Wisdom, Love, and Power, 
were to tempt me with treasures of their hearts, 
I like to think my mind would analyze 
best scene that fosters spiritual success. 

While I decide which path I want to take 
that guides me to domestic quietude, 
I must descend to Underworld of dreams 
to ask Achilles and Odysseus 
which goddess I should choose to risk my fate, 
whose fortunes present results of Free Will. 

Perhaps I may find Dante by the pool, 
where Narcissus listens to Echo sing, 
so he will guide me to the Promised Land 
in lush Edenic vales of Idaho 
where I travel on the Oregon Trail 
to escape slaughter of religious wars. 

With spirit of Adam I tend fruit trees 
to fight deceptive serpent with gold eyes, 
inspired by Jesus son of Jupiter, 
because I choose to consume Fruit of Faith 
that opens my Third Eye of Star Insight 
to help me perceive essence of all things. 

With courage of brave Arthur of the Stone, 
descendent of Jehovian Fisher King, 
and Marya Magdalena, Mermaid Queen, 
I bear the bloody cross of holy war 
to build ten thousand towers of white stone, 
constructing Kingdom of Heaven on Earth. 

All these delusions of global conquest, 
that drove my ancestors two thousand years 
to colonize every nation on Earth, 
now dissipate in wordless glow of dawn, 
so I drink from the Holy Grail of Truth 
in my self-made role as Messiah Sleuth. 

Star Eyes Of My Night

Star Eyes Of My Night
© Surazeus
2026 08 19

Because she is the star eyes of my night, 
beaming visions of vain hope from her heart, 
I search with hope for algorithmic ways 
to redesign our social narrative 
so we admire perceptive qualities 
of common people struggling to survive. 

The plumber adjusts invisible pipes 
to channel water from the River Styx 
through sink faucet in kitchen of concern 
so I can cook spaghetti on the stove 
with tomato sauce and parmesan cheese 
when we drink wine and ignore falling bombs. 

The workers who repair our broken homes 
with frames of wood and nets of copper wires 
work with their hands to reshape forms of hope 
against oppressive tyranny of words 
stacked by large language models of pride 
so we drive our cars to the grocery store. 

The mechanic tweaks engine of my car 
so gas in combustion chamber explodes 
to power spin the piston engine sparks 
in twirling cycle of aggressive force 
so we zoom fast across map-measured space 
in time machine of legalized control. 

The farmer plows soil with hard dragon bone 
and sows sharp teeth in furrows of mute verse 
so angels and devils both spring with hope 
from field of dreams to colonize the world 
and build vast maze of streets with numbered doors 
where idols of dead gods direct our lives. 

The driver maneuvers delivery truck 
on web of highways sea to shining sea, 
porting raw materials to factories, 
providing merchandise to shopping stores, 
and stocking homes with valuable assets 
where we dwell in domestic quietude. 

The baker gathers wheat that Ceres grows 
to grind grains into flour of secret code 
they program into loaves of fresh-baked bread 
that we eat with fried fish and tartar sauce 
when Jesus preaches Sermon on the Mount 
about caring for homeless immigrants. 

I dream I meet Jesus on signless road 
alive as you and me with pulsing heart, 
so I ask if he will return again soon, 
but he shows how his spirit incarnates 
in leaders who nurture each human being 
through state that gives all freedom to live well. 

How Psychic Angels Talk

How Psychic Angels Talk
© Surazeus
2026 08 18

The peaceful loneliness of the sidewalk, 
where I wander between asphalt and grass, 
reveals to me how psychic angels talk 
when they calculate our terrestrial mass, 
so I visit Emily in her yard 
where she grins and deals the Magician card. 

Strange blueness of the midafternoon sky, 
that glows behind web of telephone lines, 
explains futility for asking why 
death occurs in this world no God designs, 
since Jesus tells me no one is up there, 
so we must show the living that we care. 

Grim grayness of the town-connecting street, 
that tricks me to go anywhere I want, 
extracts despair from my heart with each beat 
which powers angel wings I dare to flaunt, 
but I cannot fly, so I journey on, 
strumming guitar as the national pawn. 

Indifferent angst of sunrays in glass doors, 
exposing vanity of daily work, 
tricks me to find salvation in bookstores 
where prophets without holy books still lurk, 
but when I visit his still-empty tomb 
Zeus tries to sell me riddles that spell doom. 

Since Jesus has been dead two thousand years 
our personal relationship is stalled, 
so his granddaughter cleans the world with tears 
when she appoints me as her castle skald 
to sing of Mermaid and her Holy Grail 
who dwells in haven of the mountain vale. 

Proud dignity of the telephone pole 
provides new framework for our old world view 
that every human has appointed role 
to kill each other over what is true, 
so I must deconstruct class privilege 
when I rebuild United Nations bridge. 

Locked doors of houses in suburban zones 
discuss catastrophe of being alive, 
so I sell Bibles forged from dragon bones 
to save family photos on the hard drive 
as puzzle pieces in tale of our state 
fractured in church gangs by greed-driven hate. 

Strange quietness of wind on the bare hill 
drives me to stack stones in heavenly wall 
by adjusting duty based on free will 
while I sell apples in the market stall, 
till Emily steps from carriage of faith 
and asks if I have seen the Cosmic Wraith. 

Psychic Rivers Of Regret

Psychic Rivers Of Regret
© Surazeus
2026 08 18

Soft vibration of crystal words reforms 
how human brains perceive the Face of God 
that gleams from golden clouds of arrogance 
to mutate how we talk about our souls 
as light that glows from fragile shell of glass 
which blinks out when the brain ceases to dream. 

If angels dare to explain how the brain 
could process sentences of fractured truth, 
we humans might remember why we hope 
to share conversations about rebirth 
in humming mountains of social thoughts 
when we meet ourselves in the spectral zone. 

I hear ephemeral voice of weird faith 
when I float high on invisible wings 
to teach the faceless ghosts of everywhere 
strange secret of conceptual innocence 
inherent in fake law of gravity 
that might invalidate my divine creed. 

Since no one speaks about the fall of stones 
which float on psychic rivers of regret, 
we gaze in eyes of people starved by fear, 
trapped in the prison camp of global faith, 
who sell each other empty books of tales 
which they burn to keep warm on winter nights. 

Foreclosed quality of inhuman speech, 
concerned with quality of suffering, 
pronounces new law of humble rapport 
between exploiters and victims of fraud 
who argue semantics in the locked church 
to deconstruct confession bombs of truth. 

If we use language to communicate 
hunger for substantial faith in the known, 
we might confuse young children without keys 
who prove flowers and glaciers design 
how we give and take in contests of love 
for return on investment despite death. 

Haunted by attentive ghosts of lakes, 
shot by angel of spiritual rewards 
who deems them unfit to work in food stores, 
I gamble for salvation with word-luck, 
heart tangled in language matrix of truth, 
when I overhear words of flightless souls. 

Awake with breath-turn of the mountain vale, 
I measure atom-wind of spiral waves 
to sense pure essence of the conscious brain 
which translates seething tides of wordless hope 
to jumbled logic of cathedral hymns 
which humans sing to pretend no one dies. 

Ideal God Of Joy

Ideal God Of Joy
© Surazeus
2026 08 17

Through time-expanding laughter of my heart 
I redesign perspective of my brain 
to frame traumatic events of despair 
as opportunities to learn and grow 
while I strive with encouragement of faith 
to transcend limitations of the self. 

Bright light of this brave proverb blinds my eyes 
so I cannot perceive progressive way 
to maintain balance over shifting sands, 
so I shade straight attention of my heart 
with cautious code that helps me better see 
road I need to take through shadow of fear. 

I ponder weirdness of reverse effect 
that proves through success of daily routines 
how this much more cynical attitude, 
that death will dismember my fragile soul, 
guides my way around brutish obstacles 
better than faith in providence of God. 

What does not kill me tends to injure me 
instead of filling me with noble strength, 
yet cautious attention to dangerous threats 
provides sharp wit to analyze landscape 
cluttered with soul-consuming traps of pain, 
so I can navigate to safer ground. 

This principle, that fear increases sight 
so grim despair beams soul-liberating light 
as guiding star that helps me evade death, 
seems to contradict creed of piety 
that commands I attend events with faith 
in some faceless God that glows in the sky. 

All my ancestors once lived long enough 
through cautious attention to reality 
to generate new life before they died, 
so sharp-eyed vigilance of prudent care, 
which they programmed into my psychic genes, 
still dictates how I decide to proceed. 

Though techniques of survival we accrue 
through countless generations of rebirth 
provide complex algorithms of insight, 
our progress to transcend frail human state 
seems to retard evolutionary growth 
so few attain divine enlightenment. 

I need no name or complex tale of growth 
depicting process of cause and effect 
for me to moralize in mental code 
spirit-expanding scope of consciousness 
enhancing how my mind perceives this world 
as I grow into ideal God of Joy. 

Become Flowers In Rain

Become Flowers In Rain
© Surazeus
2026 08 17

Before marble tomb of some long-dead god, 
whose descendants crowned themselves kings of hope, 
I listen to wordless voice of the wind 
tell me about strange vanity of men 
who manage other men to do their will 
till they die and become flowers in rain. 

I find ten thousand tombs of long-dead gods 
scattered across new temporary states 
where living gods rule from high offices 
concerned about survival this fraught hour 
while thousands strive to gain that seat of power 
though butterflies explain wisdom of love. 

Should Time reallocate energy sparks 
enough for me to play on stage of fate 
wise god who manages affairs of state, 
I will accept with grace her calm command 
to plan program that funds creative work 
which nurtures talents of committed souls. 

Should I succeed in my inspiring plot 
to implement social program for scheme 
that provides urge of hope for every soul, 
people may mold metal in my shape 
to capture in changeless idol of hope 
bold spirit of my vision for their lives. 

Yet I prefer to play my private role 
as plain artificial world generator 
when I design with sentences and shapes 
tales that map complete history of mankind 
on time-animated atlas of hope 
so we analyze our progress so far. 

When I was young some thirty years ago 
I exited maze of the social grid 
and traveled east on the Oregon Trail, 
where my ancestors in wagons went west, 
to find my homeland that does not exist, 
but dance till I become flowers in rain. 

Though empires rise and fall in tides of change, 
which elevates some mortal man as god 
till they dissolve into stories in books, 
I keep on walking down the signless road 
to map our journey till the sun explodes 
and we become atomic ghosts of light. 

She asks me if I know how I should feel, 
so I write verses of riddles in sand 
to record dream of my epiphany 
that programs how my brain perceives the world 
till waves of time wipe all my words away 
and wind sings on beach of eternity. 

Gospel Of The Caring Smile

Gospel Of The Caring Smile
© Surazeus
2026 08 16

Each dawn when Odin smiles at ghosts of men 
I look from office window of my hope 
and wonder who the strangers are who walk 
nowhere across narrow scope of my mind 
with casual indifference to suffering 
people in distant lands endure with grace. 

No matter where I wander in the world 
I meet the Gray Wanderer on the road 
who offers small box with the angel tongue, 
or in the room where picture frames slip slant 
at sideways readjustment of the mind 
because he always seems to know me first. 

My brain will flash with secret memories 
at sudden gust of wind from the Great Voice 
which erases words of fake languages 
and traps their concepts in smooth river stones 
so they become the horse of poetry 
who gallops laughing on the hill of skulls. 

Because half-open door of secret faith 
exposes potent passion for sweet fruit, 
I file restraining order against Death 
who wants to help me generate new life, 
but I am happy in my forest hut 
reading the last book my god-soul once wrote. 

Startled at vision of the Wanderer, 
whose time-mapped visage of assertive faith 
smiles back at me from mirror of the mind, 
I hide bright halo shining on my head 
with flashing cables of the world wide web 
to prove my true street credibility. 

Inspired by words of blood in holy books 
to find the Garden of the Unicorn, 
I stand in middle of the busy road 
and wave to faceless people driving past 
because no creature in this world can last 
except for our first god, the humming toad. 

When I feel lost in haze of innocence 
that shrouds rugged hills of Arcadia, 
the one-eyed Wanderer of Anywhere 
provides advice with riddles of the fool 
who always knows more than the haughty king 
because only the weak claim right to rule. 

If Odin rides the train over the Alps 
to visit Shrine of Mary by the lake, 
he may be startled by epiphany 
that Womb of Woman generates new souls, 
so he tours television studios 
to preach the gospel of the caring smile. 

Quick Ruin Of Our Age

Quick Ruin Of Our Age
© Surazeus
2026 08 16

When death attempts to realign the clock 
through subtle syncopation of lamplight, 
I sell useless treasures of crumbled hope 
that drift in cold wind with unfolded sheep 
while children wander beyond the frontier 
to prove paradise remains when time cracks. 

I build booth in swamp of reluctant prayer 
to swim at ease in waters of despair 
which proves soul of the world still animates 
mortal humans striving against regret 
to become one spirit with the Great Being 
who walks invisible in singing fields. 

Through glory of the Great Awakening 
I seek to comprehend vast Mind of God 
that teems thick with billions of self-named souls 
who join discourse of blind philosophers 
to analyze true nature of the self 
when I ascend on winding stairs of hope. 

Invisible to eyes of mortal gods 
who meet every month in the time-locked church, 
I talk about our pilgrimage to Hell 
in grand tradition of fake heritage 
that drives our bodies to wear naked clothes 
discarded by the jester king of faith. 

Eroded by quick ruin of our age, 
that transforms fair things of our tearful pride 
to bleak consumption of hot desert sand, 
our world view readjusts its paradigm 
from ziggurat to castle to starship 
through which I will investigate the world. 

I search through every city left on Earth 
to find original framework of fate 
since ancient temples are now empty tombs 
beside the sacred river that still flows 
long after our ancestors turn to dust 
so we admire strange grandeur of decay. 

Brave idols, ruined by harsh hand of time, 
call out my name with ache of divine minds 
each time I drive past library of ghosts 
on my way to work in the marble bank 
where I map beauty of this world in tales 
that hide where saints and martyrs party wild. 

Caress porphyry heart of robot god 
to wake his passion with systemic code 
since we inscribe our secret fantasies 
on marble plates erected along walls 
which may reveal clandestine parables 
that always fool the poor to strive for wealth. 

Water Sings About Life

Water Sings About Life
© Surazeus
2026 08 16

The intense way water sings about life 
may seem strange to the human without ears 
who steals pieces of the puzzle from death 
to build collective bridge of happiness 
so wanderers may cross the dark abyss 
that proves the blue sky always understands. 

Inhaling frantic hope to evade death, 
Marcella runs along the dusty road 
forever toward the house of broken doors 
till she floats up into the lattice sky 
and hangs suspended from hand of the tree 
that laughs with crack of thunder when she wakes. 

Whatever she says to the humble wall, 
that readjusts itself with shifting words, 
may vanish in sad silence of new books 
that no one ever reads till end of time, 
yet someone always knocks on her front door 
with jar of something they would like to sell. 

Elected to manage the farming town 
her ancestors colonized with the gun, 
Marcella runs the world from city hall 
by selling water from the serpent well 
as if heroic deeds are eulogized 
by the glass-faced princess of everywhere. 

After filling one hundred books with words 
that hum with laughter of the summer rain, 
Marcella walks around the broken house 
one thousand times to find the secret door 
that leads her to the room of howling wind 
as if she could reverse the curse of fate. 

When she floats in the great ocean at dawn 
to become drop of water in the flood 
that cleanses excess sorrow from the land, 
she finds her darkness enclosed in her heart, 
yet still Marcella weaves new coronet 
from thorn-sharp stems of roses she must wear. 

Selling gold coffin of the vampire god 
to the movie star who always plays king, 
Marcella gathers sunlight with frail hands 
in brave experiment to fool cruel death, 
but children never come home from their school 
so she lies under bridge of fate and cries. 

Based on how hungry people calculate 
pride through manufactured nobility, 
Marcella counts the many shades of blue 
that gleam from restless sorrow of sea waves 
so she can frame the nothingness of death 
with beautiful romance tales no one lives. 

No Faithful Penelope

No Faithful Penelope
© Surazeus
2026 08 16

Far removed from mundane concerns of life, 
Emma floats in cloud of beautiful thoughts, 
envisioning how people interact 
with creative wisdom of selfless love 
to help each other grow and thrive in joy, 
though men drop bombs on the town where she lives. 

Crouching low as she glides along brick walls 
to avoid explosions of sharp debris, 
Emma slips into the small grocery store 
where she buys butter, flour, eggs, and milk, 
then swipes her credit card with grateful grin, 
and hurries home to bake bread for the week. 

If time dissolves her happy memories, 
Emma sits at the piano and plays 
hymns her grandmother taught her how to play 
long before the days of exploding bombs, 
and sings as if this hour of strange despair 
may be the last she sings with bitter joy. 

Safe in lush garden of Hesperides, 
Euterpe plays the lyre of Mercury 
while Epicurus shows with diagrams 
how things are formed from atoms in the void, 
then she eats apple slice on toasted bread 
and listens to drone of planes in the sky. 

Painting people without faces or souls 
in orthodox religious-icon style, 
Emma hums and pets her frightened cat 
as buildings shake from blasts of falling bombs, 
then paints silver planes that blind angels fly 
dropping bombs on cathedral of her faith. 

When sly Petryshko arrives with warm beer, 
that he swiped from unmanned gas station store, 
Emma lounges with him on the back porch, 
and asks if he will tell her once again 
about his youthful trip to Pakistan 
where he hiked the Hindu Kush mountain range. 

Explosion from eyes of the laughing ghost 
knocks both of them stunned on the thirsty grass, 
so Emma cradles his head in her lap 
and smiles through tears at how his silver eyes 
gaze joyfully blank at Heaven of hope 
where he plays chess with Gabriel in the park. 

Since I am no faithful Penelope, 
waiting in vain for my Odysseus 
to return with wounded heart from noble war, 
Emma whispers alone beside his grave, 
I will not write your name on the wood cross 
that marks where you lie in my secret heart. 

Journey To Our Goals

Journey To Our Goals
© Surazeus
2026 08 15

Though shapes of words have lost their glistening 
from over-thoughts of motionless desire, 
my voice molds fluid disbelief from light 
in solid symbols of harmonious truths 
concealed in potent melodies of faith 
designed by skeptics to describe our souls. 

There comes no time when we should cease our walk 
through empty shadows of our endless minds 
because we love to feel assertive force 
of constant motion when our blood flows hot 
through pulsing clock of timeless memories 
that motivate our journey to our goals. 

Still far across this nameless wilderness 
of wind-swept hills, where rivers silverate 
oppressive sorrows that would trap our hearts, 
we strive to overcome dire obstacles 
with heart-enchanting songs of timeless truth 
that bleeds from golden sunset gleam of fear. 

Without attentive focus of our hearts 
on distant gleam of Heaven beyond time, 
we might now wander lost in Somewhere Land 
except for guidance of the cloud-bold hand 
that gestures omens of our providence 
forth ever at elliptic blare of winds. 

Strange empire of steel towers sprouts from graves 
where bones of our ancestors sing of faith 
in wake of our progressive journey west 
that rises tall from humble homes we build 
till sermon of our free democracy 
rings clear on duty-darkened mountainsides. 

Through ceaseless motion of transcendent strife 
our vision dominates old tyrant states 
with principles of liberty and justice 
for every person born from womb of hope 
till tyranny sprouts from our bitter hearts 
at shock of horror from our power trips. 

Hearts twisted back in devil-tangled fear 
at quick expansion of conceptual games 
that crowds vast chess board of our social state 
with players who disrupt course of success, 
we vainly raise harsh legal laws of fate 
in weak attempt to fortify our state. 

When Orpheus leads us from the Underworld 
with soul-stirring anthem of noble pride 
for deeds our ancestors accomplished well, 
we hold hands with our faceless energies 
in bid to rise from cave of primal rage 
so we dance free in forest of fruit trees. 

Ghosts Of River Stones

Ghosts Of River Stones
© Surazeus
2026 08 15

Because golden butterfly of my heart 
still inhabits timeless Arcadia, 
untouched by concerns of urbanity, 
I summon ghosts of river stones with song 
that swirls from abyss of my aching heart 
to form stars that dream my eternal self. 

Awake through epiphany of this hour, 
my mind invents mundane significance 
that never exists in atomic things 
so I assign weird names to things I see 
which helps us understand how we should feel 
as we stroll shyly among the fruit trees. 

This Nature we perceive as pure and good 
our brains invent from scattered memories 
that we assemble into grand world view 
so we can celebrate his vibrant being 
which generates our conscious sense of self 
as our bodies thrive in matrix of dream. 

We strip dreams of external reference 
so they will bend upon themselves in wings 
of weird songs we express with pulsing breath 
through brave intention to become our words 
when state of emptiness negates our will 
that fuels feedback loop of positive love. 

Thus we pursue alternative venues 
through clever maneuver of leaping laughter 
that hollows our exploding hearts of fear 
so we declare great things we dare achieve 
when we become moonlight in leafless trees 
that knows where we will lie down when we die. 

Awed on high mountain of pastoral peace, 
I gaze at vast metropolitan maze 
where countless towers, built of steel-framed glass, 
glimmer eerily with electric lights 
which emanate weird psychedelic glow 
as heaven our ancestors never envisioned. 

Inspired by beauty in this maze of towers, 
frantic seismograph of my eager heart 
transcribes in arcane riddles of respect 
conceptual gyre of psychic lunacy 
that oscillates between spirit and flesh 
to weave complex paradigm of new myths. 

Empyrean vision of my dreamless brain 
compiles all human myths of clever gods 
through sensual verity of psychic tones 
so I multiply myself with human masks 
that wakes every soul who has ever lived 
in temporary node of my god brain. 

Nothing More Than Moonlight

Nothing More Than Moonlight
© Surazeus
2026 08 15

To achieve fullness of being alive 
through tense serenity of nothingness, 
Godith hums wordless melody of angst 
in eerie tones of mist-enshrouded woods 
that wake ghosts of the dead from tombless graves 
while waulking woolen cloth with her bare feet. 

Engaged through spiritual apprenticeship 
in learning wordless songs of ancient stars, 
Godith gathers flowers from foggy glen 
where ravens name things that do not exist 
with sepulchral voice of aesthetic truth 
that seeks to purge the heart of artifice. 

This stone she holds in callused hand of faith 
is no revelation of hidden meaning 
beyond mind-expanding epiphany 
that glows with presence of the timeless hour 
when Godith wakes from suddenness of love 
with modern impulse to name everything. 

Through maximum expression of the self 
that contains multitudes of unnamed souls, 
and minimum conflation of the self 
dissolved in purity of aching song, 
Godith transcends both opposites to float 
along continuum of being awake. 

Annoyed that she must express ache of hope 
with human language in limiting words, 
Godith affirms force of assertive aim 
to name mindless things with word of insight 
that causes things to glow with cosmic mind 
so she creates her person with sly speech. 

As she approaches far vanishing point 
that separates immediate sense of self 
with timeless vibrancy of divine thought, 
Godith reduces singularity 
of our vast world to garden of her heart 
where things exist because she gives them names. 

Confined within conceptual walls of speech, 
where spirit of her brain frames with bold words 
elusive reference of ideal truth, 
Godith binds fluid memories of time 
with linear narrative for acts she plays 
as she performs her role in game of life. 

While gazing at moonlight shining through trees, 
Godith attempts to design metaphor 
relating peaceful glow of silent light 
to how her body feels with pulse of hope, 
but she decides with laughter of calm faith 
the moonlight is nothing more than moonlight. 

Star As The Suffering Man

Star As The Suffering Man
© Surazeus
2026 08 15

Despite strange joy of reawakening, 
through struggle to transcend egg of the mind, 
James stumbles half awake in mirrored hall 
where shadow of his non-existent ghost 
explains new formulas for gaining wealth, 
since we succeed despite our messy lives. 

Though Death stalks our steps from day of our birth, 
we ignore dark shadow of final doom, 
James mumbles at reflection of his soul, 
then drinks orange juice from skull of Nemesis 
whose letters keep arriving in the mail 
long after she climbed cliff of happiness. 

Or did she fall into wild sea of change, 
James ponders as he drinks coffee of hope, 
then stands in drizzle on the asphalt street 
to wait for the bus full of nameless ghosts 
who ride along Plutonian shore of fate 
to work all day in clanking factories. 

Perhaps they will make commercial of faith 
in which I star as the Suffering Man, 
James smirks while swallowing aspirin pills 
to numb terrible pain that threads his soul 
with humbling anguish of the devil laugh 
that strips his spirit of its proverb shield. 

Adjusting screws with sprocket of his heart, 
contrary to alignment check of faith, 
James assembles car engine of desire 
to build time machine that carries our souls 
faster across unmeasured space of fear 
so we can find elusive pots of gold. 

Strolling down Seventh Avenue at dusk 
past flashing neon signs that lure his heart 
to smokey bars where country angels dance, 
James notices the white horse of his fate 
floats huge beside him on wings of desire, 
so he decides to run for President. 

Proclaiming new agenda of his heart 
before huge crowd of people in the hall, 
James outlines steps of action he will take 
supporting businesses with tax incentives, 
then waves as thousands chant his name with pride, 
since we succeed despite our messy lives. 

After he loses on election night, 
rejected by the people of the land, 
James sits in wood chair by the mountain lake 
catching fish with Jesus Christ at his side 
as they plot revolution of the rich 
to enslave the people with credit debt. 

Dynasty Of Cloud-Born Gods

Dynasty Of Cloud-Born Gods
© Surazeus
2026 08 14

Tickled by how often people will claim 
they are descended from some royal chief, 
I hide my own bloodline from jeweled crowns 
to prove I am more farmer that court clown, 
for hungry people digging in thick dirt 
outnumber people lounging on gold clouds. 

Flight far of anguished hearts on raven wings 
expends fraught energy my soul would save 
for braving storms of spirit-wounding words 
against stone wall of paradise I build 
to guard my frail mind from oppressive greed 
when hordes of hungry wanderers steal fruit. 

Impulse to build strong castle of high walls 
drives me to carve huge stones from jagged cliffs 
and stack my sorrows straight in measured lines 
that block aggressive theft of sacred fruit 
so I fight thieves with sword I forge from fear 
to found brave dynasty of cloud-born gods. 

All humans, equal in hunger to eat 
nutritious fruit that sprouts from pungent soil, 
start game of power on similar ground, 
but some succeed in producing more fruit 
they sell for coins of metal stamped with pride 
to crown themselves brave kings with right to kill. 

All people alive today on spinning Earth 
descend from more successful clans who guard 
productive fields of crops and groves of trees 
through strict cooperation in their roles, 
well-organized by wisest of their group 
who manages their family institute. 

We are descendants of successful thieves 
who work together to construct high walls 
surrounding garden where they follow rules 
designed to manage individual will 
with shared needs of communal fortitude, 
or risk getting expelled from paradise. 

If you find royal kings in jeweled crowns 
high in lofty court of your family tree, 
remember they kill threats to their state power 
when they eradicate the hungry poor 
so their children populate empty farms 
to colonize Earth with superior ways. 

We are descendants of those wealthy gangs 
who build stone castles from bones of dead gods, 
then force the poor to worship reverently 
mortal man who founded their dynasty 
as God incarnate on Earth in his son 
so they claim right to rule our humble lives. 

Library Shelf Of My Heart

Library Shelf Of My Heart
© Surazeus
2026 08 14

When I follow John to Strawberry Fields 
forever on the signless road of faith, 
he shows me new tomb where Orpheus lies, 
so I turn on tape recorder of truth 
to record prophecies his skull decries 
which sound like whispers of the wind in leaves. 

Once I figure out secret code of gods, 
I look for John, whose wizard glasses gleam 
with television screens, to ask him why 
humans believe they are angels in flesh 
who have fallen from changeless realm of Heaven, 
and live stuck in these fragile mental forms. 

Since John is Christ in the sycamore tree, 
who waits for Homeless Prophet of Lost Faith 
to pass by on foot-worn Yellow Brick Road, 
I wander over to the grocery store 
where Walt and Allen study hieroglyphs 
carved in formulas of fate on glass doors. 

Wearing mask of Joker for Halloween, 
John gives me brand-new Cinderella dress, 
so we hold hands and knock on fear-locked doors, 
smeared with blood of the sacrificial lamb, 
then Cybele invites us in to eat 
cookies and ice cream from the Holy Grail. 

Before midnight bells toll for nameless ghosts, 
we catch the crosstown bus to Neverland 
where John learns how to shoot the blunderbuss 
before I bake four and twenty blackbirds 
in dainty dish King Richard never eats 
since he gives bread and honey to the poor. 

When John in white robe of the desert hermit 
asks me to imagine the world as one, 
no Heaven above us, no Hell below, 
I cook delicious meals of healthy hope 
at the elementary school of the brave 
who try to escape on the Ship of Fools. 

If we are not who we pretend to be, 
we can wear mask of who we want to play, 
so John writes names of the dead in his book 
he hides on library shelf of my heart 
while human empires rise and fall in waves 
of social revolutions against greed. 

When John wakes from weird dream on Penny Lane 
that he incarnates soul of Odysseus, 
he finds me selling poppies from gold tray 
because I feel as if I am in the play 
where Hamlet gives me letters of his love, 
so I gather flowers by the River Styx. 

World Money Empire

World Money Empire
© Surazeus
2026 08 14

Though clouds of revolutionary change 
glow gold above vast maze of city streets, 
we go about our business to maintain 
social structures founded on principles 
that all human beings are created equal 
while homeless angels wander streets at dawn. 

Network of water pipes beneath our streets 
gleam with blood from the holy lamb of faith 
to weave our bodies in communal dream 
where homeless angels by telephone poles 
prophesy fall of our World Money Empire 
as Greed and Death play chess games for our souls. 

Hephaestus extracts from caves of desire 
minerals for constructing time machines 
which we all drive on highway of ambition 
in race across the waste land of blind ghosts 
for who arrives at the Promised Land first 
where Faceless God on throne of judgment sleeps. 

Sitting at his right hand in castle court, 
Jesus nudges Jupiter with left hand 
so bearded deity splutters awake 
from weird dream where he rides the Horse of Troy 
in brave bid to unite nations of Earth 
in World Money Empire of social pride. 

Thus shall we deem the victors of world war 
secret agents of Old Man in the Cloud 
who laughs at fierce games of humanity 
over who controls fruitful Tree of Knowledge 
uprooted by brave investors to build 
shopping mall where clowns entertain our kids. 

Though Phoebus attempts to organize facts 
in coherent world view that can account 
for every effect from assertive cause, 
which allows us to predict clear results, 
he almost loses sight of his main goal 
through messages from opposed institutes. 

There never has been one center of power 
around which all humanity may work 
through common focus on shared social growth, 
which leaves good angels homeless in the streets 
where they sit on the marble steps of fate 
with all their possessions in paper bags. 

As President of our World Money Empire, 
Jehovah plays golf in Elysian Fields 
with Krishna, Shangdi, and Odin in game 
for who will control hungry human souls 
who labor to maintain their dignity 
till their bodies fertilize crops of wheat. 

Misty Hills Of Verturia

Misty Hills Of Verturia
© Surazeus
2026 08 13

Home to misty hills of Verturia 
my heart guides me through tangled woods of time 
where I build fortress of stone on the mound 
heaped over bones of my ancestral soul 
where I pluck gold crab apples from long limbs 
to ferment honey cider in clay jars. 

Wrapped in deer-skin gown of cozy warmth, 
Eithni sits on square stone of honest faith 
and stirs bubbling honey cider of truth 
in old dented cauldron of burnished brass 
that emanates sweet scent of pungent hope, 
safe in misty hills of Verturia. 

Lost in misty hills of Verturia, 
young Eardwulf, dressed in bear-fur cloak and hood, 
wanders tangled woods of crab apple trees 
to find cove where he left his small wood boat, 
then stumbles in small ring of standing stones 
where green-eyed woman stirs cauldron of juice. 

Without concern for what may not be real 
in vibrant swirl of floating moon-white mist, 
Eardwulf kneels on wet grass before her seat 
and offers bag of hazelnuts with smile 
of calm sincerity from humble hope, 
brave in misty hills of Verturia. 

Tense in misty hills of Verturia, 
Eithni squints through dim haze of pulsing smoke 
to analyze with cautious dread of pain 
parameters of safety he provides, 
then fills his wood cup with delicious juice, 
and roasts nuts in soft crackling flames of trust. 

When Eardwulf curls to sleep in chilly wind, 
Eithni holds blade of sharp obsidian 
pressed to his neck to check his danger state, 
but when he opens eyes, and stares at her, 
he grins and kisses her with tender care, 
calm in misty hills of Verturia. 

Lithe in misty hills of Verturia, 
Eithni clasps his head and thigh in delight 
as their bodies writhe in tense ecstasy, 
embraced with creative passion of love, 
then cuddle blushing with pleasure of trust 
as they teach each other their secret names. 

Weaving vines around ring of standing stones, 
Eardwulf constructs secure shelter of faith, 
so Eithni guides their hunt in wooded vale 
to kill wild boar and fill bags with herbs, 
then hum in harmony to eat and kiss, 
home in misty hills of Verturia. 

Whole Symmetry Of Accuracy

Whole Symmetry Of Accuracy
© Surazeus
2026 08 13

In arts of poetry and cartography 
I love whole symmetry of accuracy, 
so I arrange lithe words in sentences 
and adjust points and lines in feature sets 
to better represent reality 
in virtual model that mirrors our world. 

Through migrant ache of curiosity 
for mandatory training of the heart, 
my mind explores strange contours of our world 
with intense focus on each graceful curve 
defining bounds of each material form 
so I sense essence glowing from its core. 

Assertive passion of the humble heart, 
which motivates my mission to create 
time-animated atlas of world history, 
fuels steady progress of detailed exams 
to reassemble fractured dreams of truth 
in pulsing globe of conscious entities. 

Through strict arrangement of fraught elements 
containing concepts of personal growth, 
I channel pain to laughter of sweet song 
by rising up from crippling angst of fear 
to dance on frantic wings of grief-bought joy 
and thus transform rage to enlightenment. 

Once I expand scope of my consciousness 
beyond limits of the Underworld cave, 
I transform my soul from Orcus of Greed 
to Orpheus of Knowledge that mute death 
is final dissolution of the soul 
when its programming brain disintegrates. 

How passionately with ache of glowing eyes 
we temporary beings of hungry flesh 
strive to transcend our transient state of being, 
as if we clumps of atoms could evade 
finality of death, when we arrange 
tales of survival in religious creeds. 

When paternal seed sparks maternal egg, 
genetic code provides strict blueprint 
for hope to organize material sparks 
so pattern of our corporeal success 
shapes matter in body-evolving form 
as we strive to become the God we worship. 

As one artificial world generator 
of many who have designed our world view, 
I organize tales of heroic deeds 
in virtual model of our changing world 
to illustrate timeless character tropes 
who provide template for us to live well. 

Frankenstein Of Our Selves

Frankenstein Of Our Selves
© Surazeus
2026 08 13

I will never relate confusing tale 
of that many-faced man who is not real 
because his spirit lingers in all books 
as every character singers have formed 
from tangled mess of their old memories 
that wanders as Frankenstein of our Selves. 

No quixotic journey of the brave fool 
depicts his existential alienation 
through discombobulated experience, 
trapped in cultural entropy of faith, 
better than his gnostic quest to find 
one real self in clutter of his fake selves. 

While standing in spotlight of social games 
on stage in Theater of the Absurd, 
the many-faced man with the Wand of Hermes 
declaims Plural Being of the fractured mind 
which he assembles in puzzle of tales 
with masks scattered in vast Maze of Dead Gods. 

If he employs intellectual caprice 
to feel himself through his multiple selves, 
he might annihilate the private self 
to release the Cosmic Self of Ungod 
from varied fragments of the diamond egg 
which encloses our entire universe. 

To analogize transcendence of self, 
he detaches mythic mind from his frame 
of pulsing flesh that hungers for sweet fruit, 
trapped in our disenchanted world of truth, 
when he designs new mental surrogate 
to bear his soul to Heaven on Word Wings. 

Through prerogative of self-sacrifice, 
the many-faced man, without wit or wiles, 
liberates immortal soul of his genes 
from temporary body of his self 
to wake divine consciousness of Ungod 
in sponge brain of his arrogant respect. 

Opposing paradigms of mental states 
present outward explosion of one self 
that finds all other selves inside oneself, 
who inwardly dissolves the mortal self 
to pure dream language of the Never Self, 
though fraught with contradictions of not-self. 

Thus through expressions of the many-self, 
driven by paradox of our dream quest, 
the many-faced man still seeks to achieve 
puzzling serenity of Nothingness 
by expanding scope with fullness of Being 
till he becomes each self who ever lives. 

Gold Hypnotic Eyes

Gold Hypnotic Eyes
© Surazeus
2026 08 12

The way piano notes cause crows to laugh 
reveals old painting of the dreamy sky 
dripping tears in crippled hands of the girl 
who waits for someone to return from war, 
intense with shadow of half-open door 
that proves she secretly hopes for revenge. 

Brick buildings on the hazy boulevard 
conceal small broken hearts of honest men 
who write their stories with blood on the wall 
through formulas of disentangled codes 
which calculate despair of open roads 
no matter obstacles of irony. 

She finds abandoned shopping cart of hope 
in field of grass behind the lonely school 
where sad grasshoppers modulate the day 
with angst of heart-enchanting melodies 
that should provide blueprint for psychic keys 
which she could use to open brave church doors. 

When stoic toad with gold hypnotic eyes 
chants Psalm of the Shepherd in evening glow, 
three school girls skip on the yellow brick road 
with plan to wake dead gods of arrogance 
from tangled roots of trees on river shore 
where dolphin brings shy Arion from the deep. 

I call to wise Inanna on high hill 
with wounded heart of stark sincerity 
in fraught request for honest rulership 
since gangs of angry thieves corrupt our state 
against the sacred law of falling leaves 
which tangle naive hearts with chosen fate. 

Far out in waste land of calm nonchalance 
dark shadow of some nameless wanderer 
slants sideways through expansive grid of hope 
that portends revolutionary change 
through sudden readjustment of our values 
that we must seal with sacrificial blood. 

Devotions of his ice-heart streaked by dawn 
should sanctify attention still denied 
by star-eyed pilgrims in the thrumming dark, 
but he decides to fortify his mind 
against bright menace of the silent tree 
that stands guard in abandoned castle court. 

Entranced by gold hypnotic eyes of truth, 
that spiral with one trillion galaxies, 
bold Arion stands on stage in castle court 
and strums oak harp of David with deft hands, 
then sings grand epic of his killing spree 
that makes him writhe in guilty agony. 

Wand Of The Weeping Clown

Wand Of The Weeping Clown
© Surazeus
2026 08 12

Regret cannot stop how snowflakes descend 
on delicate wings of unspoken words, 
though death consumes old silence of our souls, 
so we transform our pain to dreams of truth 
confirming how we analyze each choice 
which redesigns tone of our social voice. 

No more shall we expend false energy 
to measure psychic mirror of the sea 
which frames how we perceive our social needs 
to share tales of our private suffering 
with tender words of mental reckoning 
contrived to manage how we choose our death. 

Thus I shall join grand convoy of the lost 
in journey on lone highway of the ghost 
who wanders somewhere we have never been 
to show the way beyond fake paradise 
as if we hunger for dramatic truths 
to reprogram our minds with innocence. 

If I pause outside window of my room, 
while arranging snake eggs in Book of Doom, 
I may glance through lace curtains of my heart 
to see the Fairy Queen in silk nightgown 
who offers me wand of the Weeping Clown 
so I decide to play cartographer. 

Another king is set to come and go 
in naked anguish of electric snow, 
so I sign with name of my inner child 
new executive orders which assert 
children must learn how to build house of bones 
so we can draw map of the changing world. 

When Jesus finds me lounging in the cave 
where shadows of things flicker on the wall, 
he appoints me to perform solemn role 
heading new-formed Department of the Soul, 
so I search for lost people of the world 
and give them identification cards. 

Now that each soul is legal to exist 
as hungry spirit in land of the free, 
we can return to the business at hand 
of building wagons with crystalized wheels 
so we can fly on wings of Icarus 
above ever-changing maze of dead gods. 

No longer disenfranchised by concern, 
expressed by mechanics and librarians, 
we follow Humble Prophet of the Cow 
who bears reforged wand of the Weeping Clown 
to open new residential account 
at the water business office of faith. 

Queen Of Her Own Life

Queen Of Her Own Life
© Surazeus
2026 08 12

My heart swells with stark sensation of respect 
when Earth spirals through bright cloud of stardust 
beneath constellation of the Brave Boy 
who rescues from Cruel Serpent of the sea 
Graceful Girl sacrificed by Greedy King, 
and crowns womankind queen of her own life. 

When fierce winds lash waves against rocky coast, 
Perseus steers motor lifeboat with calm skill 
through swells of tempestuous anxiety 
to find sailboat capsized in churning fear, 
and rescues seven people from abyss 
who huddle for warmth as he turns toward land. 

Wrapped in warm towel and clean cotton robe, 
Andrea sips hot tea by glowing hearth 
in sturdy stone cottage by roaring sea, 
safe from time-wracking gale that pummels hard 
her vulnerable sense of security 
as she breathes deep to calm her frantic heart. 

Sitting with guitar in the leather armchair, 
Perseus plays heart-enchanting melody 
Asturias, composed by Isaac Albeniz, 
that transports spirits of the rescued crew 
to sun-enraptured hills of sweet duende 
where children play games in groves of orange trees. 

At dawn when gold sun gleams through placid waves, 
Perseus and Andrea together stroll 
broad shore of gleaming sand between high cliffs 
of jagged rocks and boundless sea of light, 
smiling shyly as they share childhood tales 
and laugh with delight at clever insights. 

Approaching them with angry stride of hope, 
Daniel, the banker who would marry her 
with encouragement from her father, shouts 
for her to show some common decency, 
then grabs her arm with possessive disgust, 
so Perseus pushes attacker away. 

Declaring she will never marry him 
because he attempts to control her life, 
Andrea takes hand of Perseus in her hand, 
and strides back to stone cottage on the hill 
where they eat breakfast with her family, 
then exchange phone numbers inside the door. 

Meeting for their first date at the bookstore, 
Andrea and Perseus discuss history 
of architecture, weapons, clothes, and food 
to compare the bronze age culture of Greece 
with features of the Viking age in Norway, 
and hold hands as they stroll by wine-dark sea. 

Dumb Earth Of Faith

Dumb Earth Of Faith
© Surazeus
2026 08 11

I set my new grave in dumb earth of faith 
to translate shrieks from heaven of the heart 
so shambling wanderers on signless roads 
may know with certainty where they can go 
in verdant valley of our singing skulls 
when wise Cassandra prophecies our fate. 

Though ecstasy of wisdom burns my mind 
with soul-transforming flame of secret love, 
I dance in flawed light of reluctant grief 
at mounting beat of my breath-fueled heart 
to find mysterious truth in silver eyes 
that see beyond mask of my mutant face. 

Since trees extend dark shadows of their truth 
across soft patch of grass I call my home, 
I listen for faint sounds of youth to spark 
assertive flow of water through my soul 
so we can measure subtle change of time 
in light that waits on skin of my mute mind. 

I feel pulse of this hill with gate of stones 
where strangers bring sea waves in trembling hands 
to ask how deserts smother paradise 
though beauty must endure the wounded mouth 
that seals our dreadful book of honest lies 
as if we share no tales of suffering. 

This nothing we remember when we wake 
at shock of broken wagons by the road 
frames flower meadows with grotesque beliefs 
till eerie voice of bells uncooled by fate 
attempts to separate our plangent hearts 
though we clasp hands with eager fortitude. 

If I possess no secret code of truth 
despite intended loss no fool denies, 
I may remember hour we meet with death, 
enlightened by black thunder clouds of time, 
yet we share juice of fruit from Tree of Life, 
then journey on with lamp of solitude. 

Still insolent with ardent creed of love, 
I dare endure dire threats from hungry men 
who never share fruits of our generous globe 
that shudders in its slow relentless spin 
though we perform absurd play of false pride 
when cocks crow with alarm of global war. 

As Lucifer elected by the crowd 
I bear lamp of integrity with courage 
that lights our rugged road of tragedy 
when we escape cracked walls of paradise 
to build home village in bleak wilderness 
where we set our graves in dumb earth of faith. 

Haven Of Protective Pale

Haven Of Protective Pale
© Surazeus
2026 08 11

Enclosed in haven of protective pale, 
that surrounds her home with forcefield of love, 
Juturna ponders all possible fates 
that might result from each action she takes, 
then chooses one grand deed she can perform 
to send dead souls back to their greedy graves. 

Though bodies of our souls mingle with dirt 
that glows with ancient light of long-dead stars, 
they call her name with faint voice of the breeze 
that translates words of her secretive thoughts 
to butterflies that flit among fruit trees 
with timeless messages from silent hills. 

When she expresses hopeful thought of life 
with soft uncanny voice of her mute heart, 
Juturna feels strange sorrow take new shape 
that walks beside her on the garden path 
where she still wanders listlessly, attuned 
to ache of wisdom in each flower bloom. 

When old Neptunus, with his cracked horse skull, 
appears from shadow of relentless hope, 
Juturna twirls on graceful steps of fear 
with plan to evade hard grasp of his hand, 
but he pins her against the garden wall, 
demanding that she bear child of his soul. 

If gleaming moon of sharp anxiety 
stays hidden behind veil of innocence, 
Juturna vows with trembling voice of rage 
to cast dire spell of poisonous despair 
that strikes his heart with limp sterility, 
then pokes his leg with stick of verity. 

Averse to harsh potency of her curse, 
Neptunus hesitates at sense of doom 
that misdirects attention of his hope 
sideways enough for well-witch to strike hard 
and wrestle old sea-god facedown in dirt 
where she binds his hands with vine of the law. 

Arriving with three goats he bought from Faunus, 
Saturnus grins amused when he observes 
how his clever daughter subdues cruel thief 
who slouches bound to trunk of the tall oak, 
so he shoves old horse-tamer out the gate, 
then roasts steaks for his grandchildren to eat. 

Alert in haven of protective pale, 
Juturna guards three children of her heart 
who play hide and seek with bearded grandfather, 
climbing on his back as Saturnus spins 
and howls with demon voice of ocean waves, 
then they sleep as she keeps watch in moonlight. 

Weird Riddles Of The Truth

Weird Riddles Of The Truth
© Surazeus
2026 08 11

Astonished by strange beauty of the world 
that teems with conscious creatures of desire, 
I follow winding stream of flowing water 
from ocean beach with swirling waves of change 
to mountain cave where demons haunt my heart 
to decipher weird riddles of the truth. 

Entranced by strangeness of glittering clouds 
that transform into various forms of thought, 
I watch young woman on lush river shore 
who fills straw baskets with flowers and fruit 
and sings about strange mystery of the world 
to decipher weird riddles of the truth. 

Pleased such a wonderful person exists 
in this world of men who fight for control, 
I recount my journey to paradise 
through valleys of monsters in greedy gangs 
while I grasp my wand of honor through love 
to decipher weird riddles of the truth. 

Encouraged by her generosity 
for giving fruit to hungry travelers, 
I strip off old clothes of my social state, 
bathe in Lethe River to cleanse my soul, 
and kneel before Flora with humble heart 
to decipher weird riddles of the truth. 

Wounded by my journey to paradise 
in descent through dark valley of despair, 
I feel my arrogant soul purged of pride 
through experience climbing mountain of hope 
when I share proverbs of lessons I learn 
to decipher weird riddles of the truth. 

Amused by how I have grown boy to man 
through intense progress of maturity, 
I ask Flora for guidance of her love, 
so she leads me on narrow path of faith 
through forest of shadows to field of light 
to decipher weird riddles of the truth. 

Inspired by vision of her prudent words 
depicting haven of protective pale, 
I stack stones in surrounding walls of faith, 
then tend flame of hope in tower of trust 
while she tends rich herbs and fruit trees of love 
to decipher weird riddles of the truth. 

Attentive to needs of her humble heart 
which generates life from seed of my love, 
I dwell with Flora in our paradise, 
teaching our children knowledge about life 
so they may live well after we both die 
to decipher weird riddles of the truth. 

New God Of Fire

New God Of Fire
© Surazeus
2026 08 10

If light illuminates all wounded hearts 
with equal spectrum of chromatic chords, 
we might through graphic vividness of faith 
perceive prismatic ambience of love 
that hope refracts in rainbow wings since time 
vibrates in pulsing knots of molecules. 

Distinctive pact of writhing photographs 
denies contract between abysmal parts 
through frantic oscillation of shared hopes 
that hungry souls fail to express in words 
forged by sharp water smoothing stones of fate 
so we wake trapped in mask we never made. 

Sebastian stands with rigid arrogance 
against heart-breaking facts of curious fear 
to prove despair could never bend his will 
against stark principles his father built 
to form foundation of his honest state 
contrived by thieves from blueprints of regret. 

Yet he decides to aim with hawk-eyed hope 
long rifle loaded with small sphere of fate 
straight at steel mask of eyeless tyranny 
in strict defiance that could crack his mind 
through fragile courage of the desperate fool 
to save his clan from chains of slavery. 

With sneer of haughty pride for conjurers, 
bold Beleth mocks young boy with long thin rod 
set to his shoulder with clumsy concern, 
then pounds his chest and roars to scare the fool, 
but brave Sebastian grins and pulls the trigger 
that blasts flame of fire with sizzle of smoke. 

Large crowd of devils in black leather capes, 
and wielding tridents forged in caves of Hell, 
laugh with uproarious contempt at faint flash, 
but Purson shrieks in shock when he observes 
whole head of Beleth explode in blood blast 
that splatters bloody brains across the ground. 

Stunned in silence to see their mighty king, 
whose monstrous rage subdued them all with fear, 
long terrified at his harsh punishments, 
stand huge and headless, motionless too long, 
then fall straight back to whump on mindless dust, 
and quiver as blood gushes from his skull. 

Sebastian holds long rifle with both hands 
while standing tall on stone of Great God Voice, 
and grins when devils who were wont to howl 
fall to their knees in terror of his power, 
then pledge allegiance to new God of Fire 
as they gaze with awe at glory of his face. 

Stars Unfold Their Dreams

Stars Unfold Their Dreams
© Surazeus
2026 08 10

When stars unfold their dreams into my heart 
through cosmic cycles of resurgent faith, 
I sing electric phrase of wrinkled time 
to mark incessant turning of each day 
through gentle ebbs of slow-subsiding tides 
that float ship of my heart to paradise. 

Though waves unfold their words into my mind 
through rumbling swells of time-unslanted hills, 
I catch spring sunlight in frail leaves of faith 
to taste concocted brew of sugared thoughts 
which nourish transformation of my soul 
from seaweed-tangled stones of fortitude. 

Since wind unfolds its voice into my mouth 
through wordless gusts of flashing rainbow eyes, 
I linger downwind from the curious ghost 
embodied by the big-eyed deer of trust 
who gazes straight through shadow of my fear 
based on new revelation of my heart. 

Where dust unfolds its spark into my eyes 
through exiled willfulness of careless love, 
I sail on waves of wonder that spring wild 
from frothing fountain of my aching heart 
against harsh tyranny of selfish greed 
to fertilize vast fields of glowing grain. 

Till Death unfolds my body from its form 
through haughty abstinence of noble pride, 
I follow paths of glory to the grave 
while I express orations for the state, 
providing calm assurance of weird lust 
for mutual recreation of the mind. 

When Time unfolds its promise of my doom 
through flowing shadows of the empty room, 
I slot new fuse in circuit of my mind 
to conjure virtual model of the Earth 
as map by which I navigate strange moods 
in transient project to build paradise. 

Though Fate unfolds my choices on bright stage 
through blinding glamor of the telescope, 
I wear broad wings of fame I forge from fear 
to glide with Icarus beyond high walls 
so we can survey endless maze of myths 
where idols of dead gods block large church doors. 

Since Fame unfolds my private state of mind 
through binding arrogance of humble faith, 
I strum the Lyre of Mercury and sing 
tale of the normal person who observes 
nature of the world with critical eyes 
so I record weird riddles of the truth. 

White Butterfly Of Death

White Butterfly Of Death
© Surazeus
2026 08 10

Shocked by the sudden certainty of death 
that swoops at my heart on butterfly wings, 
I curl into eccentric thought of shells 
enclosing vibrant heart of vanity 
to shelter in small haven of regret 
against relentless tides of daily change. 

Joanna strides across cracked desert plain 
toward glowing shimmer of attentive care 
while gasping deep for divine breath of hope, 
but laughs with bitter joy of wretched faith 
at how time unspools passionate concern 
for stable system of social exchange. 

Gazing mute out high window of her heart, 
while trapped in tower of her bird-winged mind, 
Joanna watches men on horses fight 
for who controls women and trees of fruit, 
then prays to marble statue with long hair 
that shows Rapunzel with her first-born son. 

Driving to work at the federal bank 
where she manages special business loans, 
Joanna sees on horse of glowing clouds 
Richard the Lion-Heart with sword of truth 
ride swift into battle to save the world 
as wipers clear raindrops from the windshield. 

Lounging in garden of herbs and fruit trees 
at Zisa Castle where she reigns as queen, 
Joanna plays sweet melodies of hope 
on harp of polished oak, and sings with voice 
of her great-grandfather, William Troubadour, 
whose ghost haunts river woods of Aquitaine. 

While Queen of Sicily for thirteen years, 
Joanna tends garden of her aching heart, 
secure in heaven of electric crows 
that soar on wings of longing to the stars, 
till Tancred pushes her against the wall 
and tries to kiss her, so she stabs his leg. 

Attending meeting at the federal bank, 
Joanna reviews application for loan 
submitted by Thomas to build new mall, 
but when he gropes her thigh with leering grin 
she calls police who ask her why she wears 
tight black skirt with provocative intent. 

Safe at Fontevraud Abbey in Anjou, 
where she flees turmoil of rebellious rage 
that sweeps across lush County of Toulouse, 
Joanna lies pregnant with desperate fear, 
gazing at the white butterfly of death 
that lands on her hand red with blood of faith. 

Rain Blooms Into Flowers

Rain Blooms Into Flowers
© Surazeus
2026 08 09

"The most beautiful kiss we ever share 
is the one when the rain blooms into flowers, 
and the sparrows translate our wordless thoughts 
to uncanny song of the wind in trees, 
and the clouds become palaces of trust 
where we are safe from sorrows of the world." 

Pouring water from the clay jar of hope 
into the brass cauldron of mute desire, 
Furina boils stew of barley and lamb, 
flavored with honey and coriander, 
then places clay bowl on table of oak 
for Quirinus to eat as the sun sets. 

When effervescent glow of evening light 
glows lavender in the grove of fig trees, 
highlighting slopes of Mount Janiculum, 
Furina walks dirt path to Satricum 
to visit Matuta in leather skirt 
who tends rich herbs in lush garden of faith. 

Gasping with joy and spreading her arms wide, 
Matuta welcomes her fourth daughter home, 
who gives her melon she found by the lake, 
then whistles to small boy in the huge oak 
who kisses his crow, then jumps to the ground, 
and runs laughing in warm arms of his mother. 

Cradling Janus fast asleep on her lap, 
Furina chats with her mother Matuta 
about where she can find new pepper seeds 
because the hungry rabbits near her home 
eat the parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme, 
but they dislike the taste of pepper leaves. 

Climbing hill of Vagitanus at dawn, 
Furina and her clever curious boy 
search for pepper plants in volcano tuff, 
but as they leave with basket of thick herbs 
old half-blind seer of Goddess Cybele 
emerges from shadow and grips her arm. 

"As incarnation of Attis the Wise, 
I reign as priest in Phrygianum Temple, 
so I speak with grave voice of Cybele 
when I declare descendant of your son 
will wield sacred Lyre of Mercurius 
when he sings Astarian Testament." 

Shocked by sharp hissing of the old blind man, 
Furina wrenches arm free of his grip, 
then hurries home to Mount Janiculum 
where she trembles as she plants pepper herbs, 
then stands and gazes at the golden moon 
that fills her heart with light of timeless stars. 

Mute Hydraulic Mystery

Mute Hydraulic Mystery
© Surazeus
2026 08 09

How often we forget advertised thoughts 
about traumatic moments of insight 
that broadcast bulletins of fateful fear 
contrived by mute hydraulic mystery 
we dare attempt to minimize with code 
programmed to readjust our attitude. 

Against national narrative of pride 
we seek to modify mosaic creed 
to help our children navigate weird signs 
designed to manage property of truth 
despite assertive ratios of fact 
necessary to approve thought permits. 

Severe intolerance of theater 
discloses taxes no one wants to pay 
to mental treasurer of social wealth 
who hosts tribunal on specific threats 
for various offices of volunteers 
who sell unwanted dreams to wanderers. 

Sufficient to supply strange substitutes 
for respondent to reservoir of fear, 
our bold intent to render liberty 
safe for conceptual prisoners of truth 
reveals rational myth of precise praise 
sealed in the box behind the rotten house. 

Consistent with our mental protocol 
for stating proverbs of weird oracles, 
nobody nominates for world empress 
sad Cinderella who prefers to skate 
on thin ice of attentive fantasy 
as secret guardian of the dispossessed. 

Since we are guaranteed free will to live 
in favor of inclusion, legalized 
by keepers of forgotten heritage, 
we seek to prove roots in the nameless land 
despite harassment of financial kings 
who leave the gardening to humble seers. 

No longer desperate for heart dominance, 
through each edition of the coming state, 
we share elective documents of hope 
with earnest ardency for the diagram 
presenting cultural patterns of regrowth 
when respect inhabits the embassy. 

Too easily confused by elegance, 
preserved in graceful progress of true love, 
we share joint custody of broken hearts 
based on deduction of rational rage 
carefully calculated by shrewd investors 
whose sorrows act as catalyst for faith.