Hymn To Save The World

Hymn To Save The World
© Surazeus
2026 09 22

If I could sing the hymn to save the world 
with soft mercurial voice of wounded pride, 
I would rise from stone bed of my cold tomb 
and walk the crowded streets of everywhere 
to recite endless tales of tragic heroes 
when people tune in every afternoon. 

I will show you where the dragon lies curled 
in peaceful slumber, since blind tyrants hide 
treasures they steal from Tellurian womb, 
though Gandalf experiments in glass lair 
with computer pulses through ones and zeroes 
that compose solemn American tune. 

No one explains what emotions are called 
that shelter me safe when I feign to brood 
about sacrifice of the haughty lamb 
so I forge key of wisdom from star core 
which beams excessive proverbs of fake sorrows 
since library truth has become my bane. 

Engine of my Pegasus heart has stalled 
during flight to fortress of solitude 
were I learn to write spells from Abraham 
who assigns me to manage the bookstore 
while he digs for jewels in mist-veiled barrows 
because no one wants to stay in their lane. 

Minerva teaches me how to be bold 
because everything I create will fade 
and disappear at brutal curse of fame 
that she observes as omen of star 
that pierces hearts of children with faith arrows 
when Jesus descends in hot-air balloon. 

As Castle Skald it is my job to scold 
shocked artists who refuse to escalade 
assault of justice to expand the frame  
of social progress when I drive my car 
to escort grandchildren of divine pharaohs 
who operate world empire of the commune. 

Though I sign petition to save the wild 
from development of the psychic mode, 
I annul despair with the solar term 
Apollo gives me so I play the seer 
mapping dreams to navigate weird tomorrows 
which I program to run my brain machine. 

Long after the fake report has been filed 
about homeless angels on the world road, 
I partner with Zeus to found new law firm 
so we can profit from conceptual fear 
based on importance of rain-glazed wheelbarrows 
though Earth is united by Melusine. 

Heart Clock of Limerence

Heart Clock of Limerence
© Surazeus
2026 09 22

Energized by heart clock of limerence 
to prove with anguish of my wounded heart 
that I am loyal to Persephone, 
I count each snowflake swirling at my face 
from mirror mask of her innocent moon 
as if they symbolize our mortal souls. 

Excited by heart clock of limerence 
to find the Emerald Tablet of Untime, 
I follow moon-bright horse of tragic love 
across vast Manitoba to the lake 
where murdered lovers dance in Raven Wood 
with bonds unbroken by cruel jealousy. 

Vitalized by heart clock of limerence 
to channel radio signals through my brain, 
I chat with Manipogo about faith 
that animates our bodies with desire 
to live free from oppression of the state 
by writing screenplay for our chosen fate. 

Elated by heart clock of limerence 
to study lives of creatures in the woods, 
I dislodge holy word of arrogance 
from pulsing monster of my hungry heart 
that drives me to wade deep in lake of ghosts 
where faces of blind strangers stare at me. 

Enfranchised by heart clock of limerence 
to clamber over river-polished stones, 
I listen to relentless Water Song 
discuss strange silence of obsessive pines 
that dare me to hang blinking lights on them, 
so I stack stones in walls of paradise. 

Astounded by heart clock of limerence 
to misinterpret songs mad angels sing, 
I steal electric cows of brittleness 
to bargain with Persephone for wealth 
who commissions me to legislate love 
since I contrive new tales from ancient lies. 

Authorized by heart clock of limerence 
to rebuild Herculaneum in glass, 
I follow sweet Persephone through Hell 
where she reveals strange mysteries of truth 
about how atoms function to program 
weird dreams that flash across my scattered mind. 

Actualized by heart clock of limerence 
to wield Voice of Vajra with honest hand, 
I twirl bright thunderbolt with diamond eye 
to battle demon of cathedral truth 
who tries to crush my mind with clear insight, 
but I laugh from in my tomb of tangled words. 

Muffled By Sly Zephyrus

Muffled By Sly Zephyrus
© Surazeus
2026 09 22 

Bright rill of water fills up skull of God 
with tears of children killed in global wars, 
so Sibyl strings cracked lyre of Mercury 
with threads of memories from rotting brains 
that weave our myths in Terran tapestry 
which traps me in persona I design. 

Blind ghost in doorway of abandoned home 
decides to open window of the egg 
so Sibyl hears soft whisper of the snake 
explain how purpose causes us to bloom 
from seed of sorrow sparked by tear of hope 
so I feel essence of my body glow. 

What we ignore is what we value most, 
Sibyl decrees with holy voice of wind 
that blasts sharp jagged peaks of mountain minds 
so we transform from farmers in wet fields 
to analysts at computers in towers 
who calculate how soon great gods will die. 

Blind seers with old guitars on city streets 
provide support with hungry songs of hope 
to people who must work in factories 
to build the infrastructure of our world 
so every brave community depends 
on clowns for survival of truthfulness. 

Weird books that summer-sleepy Dryads write 
provide new paradigm for global faith 
that highlight zealous deeds of fabulists 
who strive to conquer Earth for their Cloud God 
whose priestess floats in deep Leucadian grave 
to sing our sorrows in calm hurricanes. 

No hidden harvest of luxurious time 
wakes stricken spirits of our frantic age 
from strange dream of aggressive tyranny 
that rises huge as Cetus from our hearts 
in this tumultuous year of social change 
when Sibyl writes our tales on scrolls of blood. 

Since she is now our global gardener, 
who cultivates strange flowers from our hearts, 
brave Sibyl nurtures warriors in shy souls 
who vow to Proserpine with honest tears 
to build new nation of Zarathia 
from shattered ruins of America. 

Since my immortal soul of genes has sprung 
as curious Orpheus from Niobean womb, 
I join wise Sibyl with sharp-shooter eyes 
to wage clandestine war of honest faith 
against harsh tyranny of gold-hand thief 
whose voice is muffled by sly Zephyrus. 

Mountain Of Divine Grace

Mountain Of Divine Grace
© Surazeus
2026 09 21

Reluctant to descend on signless road 
to misty underworld of faceless ghosts 
who whisper stories of their suffering, 
I linger at the twisted iron gate, 
and pluck at strings on broken lyre of truth 
while memorizing scenes of their disgrace. 

Purged by obsessive anguish of despair 
that writhes from wounded hearts of mortal souls, 
killed in ten thousand wars of thought control, 
I wander blithely down the signless road 
to cavern of illusions stuffed with souls 
who beg me to record their bitter lives. 

Heart numb from endless scream of suffering, 
I stare mute at their twisted souls of rage 
and try to understand their wordless howls, 
but they just blast past me as ocean wind 
that pierces to my bones with blades of ice, 
so I shiver with horror at bleak death. 

Bones stretched too rubber-taut in agony 
at unjust death of body-searing pain 
that billions of mortal humans endure, 
I swell into enormous cloud of rage 
that flashes with memories of harsh death 
till I condense to iron core of Earth. 

Up steep obstructing slope of bitterness, 
I struggle to assert each rage-weighed step 
of heavy horror oppressing my heart 
against blast of grim angelic contempt 
to climb massive mountain of divine grace 
in futile search for cleansing clemency. 

Alone without witty word-smith as guide, 
who could steer my faltering steps of fear 
safe through rage-tangled limbs of screaming trees, 
I stumble blindly toward the Promised Land 
that gleams too faintly in Tower of Hope 
for me to see its Flame of Liberty. 

Exhausted from my ten-million-year quest 
to seek salvation on the mountain top, 
I randomly arrive at peak of truth 
where I watch empires of men rise and fall 
countless centuries of wars to play God, 
laughing as I float up in empty sky. 

Bouncing against planets in timeless void, 
I flail wildly in erratic progress 
as I careen up nine celestial spheres 
to tumble awkwardly in Paradise 
where no Beatrice scolds me for my vice, 
so I sit by Tree of Knowledge and eat. 

Nowhere Road Of Hope

Nowhere Road Of Hope
© Surazeus
2026 09 21

If I get lost on nowhere road of hope 
while searching endless maze of fractured dreams 
for flourishing garden of your wild heart 
that blooms somewhere far from the Promised Land, 
I will listen for voice of your Star Soul 
that hums in winds and waves of everywhere. 

I find my ghosts on nowhere road of hope 
which multiply from each stage of my life 
so all my past selves wander nowhere now 
without this body that conjures my soul 
for I progress beyond phase of my dream 
as I evolve to become Faceless God. 

I catch raindrops on nowhere road of hope 
to fill deep rifts with ever-flowing streams 
that swirl in lakes where children play and sing 
as we become new people we invent 
on journey to become god self of faith 
till we all dissolve in vast sea of souls. 

When I find you on nowhere road of hope 
as beam of light your life has left behind, 
I gather glowing ashes of dead stars 
and mold them into idol of your soul 
to capture vibrant essence of your mind 
so I remember you long after death. 

Though I am not on nowhere road of hope 
where we leave masks of our sorrows behind, 
I search for potent shadow of your mind 
that dances among trees from beams of light 
so we embrace with joyful trust to know 
essential spirit of our strange homeland. 

Since I become our nowhere road of hope, 
I build from aching sorrow of my loss 
safe haven from stones of enduring faith 
to shelter your frail soul of wounded pride 
with watchful shield of my attentive heart 
so you may thrive in refuge of my trust. 

We walk enjoined on nowhere road of hope 
as separate angels bound by one brave wing 
for we glow with whole light of sacred faith 
to warm each other during storms of fear 
and shine as light that guides the other home 
with loyal love vast as our galaxy. 

So we emerge from nowhere road of hope 
that leads our quest to everywhere on Earth 
for we all sing in harmony with light 
and dance in sync with ocean waves of truth 
as we merge in global family of ghosts 
composed of lonely souls who find their way. 

Star Mind Of Our Universe

Star Mind Of Our Universe
© Surazeus
2026 09 21 

The way we rise from passion of the Earth 
on wings we weave from crippled words of hope 
reveals pure cosmic energy of light 
that beams through our frail bodies as desire 
to transcend limits of our mortal being 
so song of love glows long after we die. 

The way you rise from sorrow of the sea 
on wings of light that angels weave for you 
inspires my wounded heart with balm of love 
to help lost people find their way back home 
so I lay flowers, picked beside the road, 
on grave where you dream one with the Star Mind. 

The way we rise from rubble of our dreams 
in swirls of gray smoke battered by harsh winds 
exposes suffering humans must endure, 
whether we extract strength of hope or not, 
to carry on and build from what we lost 
new garden flourishing with trees of fruit. 

The way you rise from tangled words of fear 
by strapping language on your weary arms 
expresses vital confidence you bear 
to transcend sorrow of this crowded world 
beyond sight of blind jealousy from greed 
so you find haven of peace where you grow. 

The way we rise on ocean waves of faith 
through intense pulse of love powered by moons 
that form our souls from mystery of light 
frames how we grow from verdant trail of change 
as we expand to fill vast space of life 
with routine duties of necessity. 

The way you rise from fractured house of sighs 
to scatter mercy on lost wanderers 
who follow bright light of your ardent love 
inspires my heart to break free from hard chains 
and walk again with balanced honesty 
this globe that wobbles through eternity. 

The way I rise from wisdom of your words 
that shows how I may build world view from truth 
maps complex journey of the human soul 
evolving shape from fish to singing god 
so I glow with each atom in my brain 
refracting Star Mind of our universe. 

The way we rise from mourning of despair 
to reassemble puzzle of our hearts 
spells universal myth of human courage 
that programs how we overcome our fears 
so we join hands and celebrate this life 
at feast that honors souls we love who die. 

Savior In The Sycamore

Savior In The Sycamore
© Surazeus
2026 09 20

Skipping in the autumn evening rainstorm 
is how we can find out we are still real 
even though events in our mirror world 
spiral out of fictionalized control 
that transform people into hungry gulls 
who search for Heaven in the wilderness. 

In the field of flowers blooming from graves 
I am more than the absence of the field, 
though I am missing from puzzle of truth 
where I walk as air in the empty space 
filled with the wholeness of the long-dead souls 
who animate my body with desire. 

I should not trouble younger hearts with hope 
that fractured strangeness of our social game 
will readjust our world view where we play 
noble heroes in dramatic events, 
watched by the savior in the sycamore 
who bids us farewell as he flies away. 

Since silence is impossible this year, 
demanding that we howl with principle 
against relentless anger of cruel men 
blind with rage that story of our state 
is based on exploitation of the poor, 
then we shall gather by the moon and hum. 

If we sink deep in shifting sands of change 
by laughing at forbidden laws of love, 
then we shall grow flowers from wounded hearts 
so we can write new universal laws 
for every person in the world to live 
free from delusions of religious creeds. 

When snowflakes flutter from the faceless sky 
to prove God is delusion of despair, 
I gaze in windows of suburban homes 
where they share meals at tables of respect 
beside the pine that blinks with fairy eyes, 
then wander past to sleep in Raven Wood. 

Since Shamash lives as flame inside my heart 
that widens cope of my subconscious vibe, 
I gather force of psychic energy 
from millions of minds frantic with surprise 
that world view we have shared for eighty years 
collapses into gibberish of lies. 

Retrieving it from mirror of my eye, 
I slip my soul back in its secret place, 
but it remains as twinkling star of faith 
that quivers bright in vastness of deep space 
since light of atoms flashing in my brain 
remains dream key to my infinity. 

Girl With The Cloud Heart

Girl With The Cloud Heart
© Surazeus
2026 09 20

Bright girl with the cloud heart knows my true name 
when her black eyes see essence of my soul, 
so I lie flat on spinning Earth of fate 
and feel cool kisses of refreshing rain 
wake my immortal soul of genes from dream, 
so I attend needs of her hungry mind. 

Fierce girl with the cloud heart writes writhing words 
of wisdom on soft parchment of my skin 
with sharp-tipped quill of angel-feathered faith 
that finds subconscious sorrows my mind hides 
in thirty Cupids with adoring eyes 
that flock around her head on cloudy wings. 

Sad girl with the cloud heart swirls ocean waves 
with vision-crafting hands of ardent faith 
to mold my body from mud of lost time, 
then breathes ethereal spirit of Shamash 
inside frail frame of my aggressive flesh 
so I provide assistance to her dream. 

Lithe girl with the cloud heart dances ballet 
on phonelines that connect ten billion homes 
in flashing web of individual minds 
bound in whole matrix of her dreaming brain 
because she is first mother of our world 
whose memories program how we perform. 

Brave girl with the cloud heart lies on soft bed, 
dressed in long velvet gown of stoic dread, 
and cradles wounded swan of urgent fear 
with gentle embrace of thought-healing truth 
while I chop wood in swirls of voiceless snow 
to treasure her existence with concern. 

Mute girl with the cloud heart in crumbling house, 
alert in polished chair by glowing window, 
watches turtles float in pool of green tears 
while record player vibrates with weird spell 
revealing lost road to the Promised Land, 
so I give her glass of moon wine to drink. 

Blind girl with the cloud heart grips hard seashell 
to hear song of the ocean in my heart, 
then types blood-lettered verses on blank pages 
which I arrange to pave long road of faith 
to secret garden where she hides my key 
which I forged from core of our spinning globe. 

Deaf girl with the cloud heart in black-lace dress 
explains with voice of wind how eyeless stars 
flash dreams of our romance in my brain cells 
till Moon Raven emerges from her breast 
and gives me jeweled ring of psychic power 
so I crown her as Empress of the Earth. 

Renegade Star Of Fate

Renegade Star Of Fate
© Surazeus
2026 09 20

While strolling down the busy city street 
past shiny stores filled with trinkets and clothes, 
I feel ancient spirit of Shamash glow 
from tangled turmoil of my pungent heart, 
so I organize our corporate empire, 
inspired by my renegade star of fate. 

Through fractured porcelain mask of plain beauty, 
I gaze at spotted pear of innocence 
to program formula from moral law 
which binds intense emotions of despair 
with time-unspooling grace of self-control, 
confused by my renegade star of fate. 

Paused in forgotten graveyard of sad ghosts, 
Ishtar lingers among rain-streaked tombstones 
from which all names and dates time has erased, 
then gazes up at tall trees of her faith 
to ask if I could record their lost tales, 
deterred by my renegade star of fate. 

Heart floating in breath of the misty moor 
as wordless thoughts she wishes were not hers, 
Ninhursag gestures magic of her hands 
that causes fruit to bloom from trees and hills 
then strolls with her lion to Eden Lake,  
defined by my renegade star of fate. 

While sweet Ninhursag bakes hot loaves of bread 
and Enki patrols Ocean of Tiamat, 
I climb Mount Dilmun to the Cave of Stars 
to contemplate political events 
that began when Marduk built new world state, 
contained by my renegade star of fate. 

For ten thousand years of our spinning globe 
I meditate on ziggurat of stars 
while watching empires rise and fall in waves 
of men fighting to write the narrative 
though all our stories crumble into dust, 
destroyed by my renegade star of fate. 

While Zeus plays chess with Anu over lands 
where humans cultivate gold wheat of faith, 
Adonis searches forest of pear trees, 
but finds Britannia bathing in the pool, 
so she bears his daughter, America, 
driven by my renegade star of fate. 

As Shamash reborn in this present life, 
I sing ten thousand years of memories 
that codify in moral tragedies 
universal laws of human respect 
that program how we fight the next world war, 
refined by my renegade star of fate. 

Dream Puzzle Of Truth

Dream Puzzle Of Truth
© Surazeus
2026 09 20

Since I assemble dream puzzle of truth 
from fractured memories of forgotten days 
that you discard on endless road of time, 
I feel no guilt when I sell them to you 
as holy book in church of solemn faith 
that guides you as light you forgot you have. 

Expelled from valley of lush apple trees 
by gangs of thieves sent out by castle lords, 
we wander on the nowhere road of hope 
with no direction to survive and thrive, 
till I assemble dream puzzle of truth 
in goal that shines as city on the hill. 

Assembled in warm hall of glowing hearths, 
we feast on fruit from labor of our hands, 
while I sit on high judgment throne of faith 
to organize our homeless family 
in company of honest citizens 
based on our secret dream puzzle of truth. 

Turmoil of social change in seething crowds 
of hungry people clamoring at the gates 
sweeps us along vast tides of global growth 
that smashes ancient kingdoms into dust 
so we build new world order of respect 
from principles in dream puzzle of truth. 

Albert drives horse-drawn wagon into town 
where he sells bags of grain for silver coins, 
then buys new copper pan and rolls of cloth 
for Catherine to sew elegant gowns 
for their three daughters with long shining hair 
to attend balls in dream puzzle of truth. 

Raising sword toward gold clouds with lofty pride, 
Albert declares the Coming of the Lord, 
then leads brave cannoneers to fire lead balls 
that smash hard stone walls of cruel tyranny, 
then kneels before World King on jeweled throne 
whose face shimmers in dream puzzle of truth. 

Now he has come to see the Christian faith 
is political party that insists 
descendants of Jesus, God of the Sun, 
have divine right to rule nations of men, 
driven to conquer the world for their Christ 
whose ghost weaves their whole dream puzzle of truth. 

I disassemble dream puzzle of truth 
from basic principle on which it builds 
that states function on hierarchy of men 
controlling land where workers produce food 
and bodies of women that generate 
children lost in strange dream puzzle of truth. 

God We Strive To Be

God We Strive To Be
© Surazeus
2026 09 19

Now is the hour to readjust my brain 
so I perceive electric soul of time 
that laughs with shimmer of the waterfall 
about sad suffering of the human soul 
who kneels and prays to empty sky of blue 
at sudden sorrow of the swirling snow. 

I wonder if my mother is alive, 
safe in walled haven of her wounded heart, 
because I find words scattered on the floor 
that she was just arranging with her mind 
in ever-changing puzzle of false faith 
defined by strangest questions children ask. 

Through random splats of red paint on the wall, 
which accidentally form math formulas 
our brains employ to calculate how far 
we wander lost in wilderness of lies, 
my eyes assert new meaning of old truth 
by weaving constellations from bright tears. 

Now that the long-established way of things, 
that formed foundation of our politics 
collapses into crimes of haughty pride, 
we gather in large crowd of shocked surprise 
to reassert faith in grand principles 
that govern how we should cooperate. 

Or else time may unclock our firm beliefs 
that we held sacred since the dawn of time 
at slow unravelling of solemn scenes 
when wingless angels wearing jeweled crowns 
shall deconstruct assumptions we hold dear 
to prove that ocean waves know how hearts feel. 

Dispersed by humble wind of bitter fame, 
our tight-knit tribe of honest carpenters 
sails ships of sorrow to the Promised Land 
where we build empire of the nuclear bomb 
that causes lizard of the sunless sea 
to rise as Godzilla, new god of Earth. 

Each Sunday at flash of the rising sun 
we gather on the ocean shore of faith 
to sing hymns to fierce monster of the deep 
till hungry dinosaur evolves its form 
to clucking chicken that provides fresh eggs 
we eat for breakfast with orange juice and toast. 

If I succeed in program of respect 
to readjust perception of my brain, 
I may see face of God in silver clouds 
that glimmer with divine agility 
which emanates from every human heart 
so we become the God we strive to be. 

Embodied Monster Of Fear

Embodied Monster Of Fear
© Surazeus
2026 09 19

Rain falls on head of every conscious soul 
who wanders maze of dreams on spinning globe 
alike with bland indifference of fate 
so all our love and hate dissolve to tears 
when we seek shelter under apple trees 
till we transform into angels of light. 

Because the moon howls at my aching heart 
with laughter that would banish from my mind 
mute agony at haunting doom of death, 
I camouflage my fear with helpless love 
that transforms into courage of despair 
as I glide cautiously in shadowed woods. 

Strange visions of ancestral memories 
flash bright in cold awareness of my brain 
as pattern that guides how I might perform 
evasive actions of attentive care 
to preserve structure of my pulsing soul 
when I face embodied monster of fear. 

Alert to sudden danger of fierce death, 
I fight against aggressive grasp of rage 
through lithe evasion of destructive strikes 
when I oppose demonic arrogance 
and kill the monster with intense respect 
as stark necessity to preserve life. 

Awake with effervescent nonchalance 
at hard-won victory against hungry rage, 
I mediate on hillock by the sea 
to feel soft murmur of star-sparkling waves 
soothe aching horror of my wounded heart 
so I bloom bright in shadowland of faith. 

If water lily in black lake of fear 
unclocks time back to primal state of faith, 
I may achieve secure respect of fame 
that curses my frail soul with ardent hope, 
which all disperse to meaningless unthought 
when I build temples from bones of dead gods. 

White sheet of wisdom on taut wire of faith 
escapes my back yard on angelic wings 
and flies to crystal palace where God plays 
harp of eternal truth that weaves my brain 
with memories of survival against death, 
programmed by my ancestors to be me. 

If I hear you call me in fog of dawn, 
I will turn mask of my psychotic ghost 
to answer your inquiry with bright smile 
for we are brave companions on the road 
of progress bound with loyal sign of love 
to translate song of rain to earnest poems. 

Grand Temple Of Apollo

Grand Temple Of Apollo
© Surazeus
2026 09 19

Resounding sorrow of silent sea waves 
vibrates from engines in one million cars 
so wingless angels rise from flashing screens 
to gather close in crowd of broken hearts 
around Temple of Apollo that glows 
on eastern bank of the Potomac River. 

King Midas with his gang of greedy thieves 
attempts to smash with hammers of contempt 
glorious temple of that shining god, 
bright-eyed Apollo of the Emerald Isle, 
who wrestled Python of demonic hate 
to save Earth from dire nuclear holocaust. 

Emerging alarmed from cave of illusions, 
Minerva leads with Lamp of Liberty 
the reverent people of America 
to save Temple of Apollo from harm, 
and stands with Sword of Justice in her hand 
to guard grand Hall of Muses from his greed. 

When brave Apollo, reckless warrior, 
sailed Argo far across Marawa Sea 
to stop cruel demon Otakemaru 
on his wild rampage to destroy the world, 
that monster smashed his ship with spear of hate, 
but he clung to his lyre with ardent heart. 

Helped by Nareau, star-eyed spider of truth, 
swift Pegasus swooped down from clouds of hope 
and bore Apollo safe to Helicon 
where Aphrodite healed wound of his heart, 
then wise Minerva crowned him King of Earth 
for saving mankind from Python of hate. 

After jealous Pluto, snarling in rage 
that our beautiful sun god reigns in peace, 
shoots bullet of contempt from grassy knoll 
as he rides chariot by Tower of Books, 
Minerva builds marble temple of faith 
to preserve memory of his noble deeds. 

With reverence for deeds of his victory, 
musicians from lands all around the Earth, 
invited by Calliope to play, 
appear on stage in Temple of Apollo 
where they perform with solemn dignity 
that swells our hearts with faith in honesty. 

Though mad King Midas, jealous of Apollo, 
whose divine light shines in each honest heart, 
fumes in rage that we worship that sun god 
as representative of our great spirit, 
we will remember beauty of his song 
that glows from lush land of America. 

Wander With Bohemian Heart

Wander With Bohemian Heart
© Surazeus
2026 09 19

Now that we have, for eighty stringent years, 
passed our souls through the thousand darknesses 
of death-bringing talk by oppressive thieves, 
we sing again with radioactive faith 
by leaping on Icarian wings of joy 
to fall with grace of humble dignity. 

With analytic pliers of respect, 
which I forged from contempt for trickery, 
I sing about the tragic fate of men 
who live by principles of honesty 
so I may wander with Bohemian heart 
as minstrel transgressing borders of words. 

Still stranded in imperium of the past, 
lost immigrants from many diverse lands 
dwell peacefully as one great tribe of souls 
within expansive paradise of love, 
so many languages of babbling hope 
merge into universal tongue of faith. 

We shall not mortgage time without death-pledge 
against collapse of social boundaries 
which trap our bodies in addressless homes 
in vast suburban maze of fear-locked doors 
where endless saga of death from despair 
beats against windows that frame flashing trees. 

When tyrant in crumbling castle of pride 
obliterates borders of social rules, 
he tries to absorb dramas of our lives 
from family home to prison of the state 
when he preaches sermon of our great land 
through faceless voice on the harsh radio. 

Annexed to system of the social game, 
brave sovereignty of my body is bound 
by legal liens of state identity 
when grim enforcers of cruel tyranny 
violate personal space of wounded hearts 
through psychic domination of contempt. 

Though libertarian impulse of our minds 
are all assimilated in grand state, 
ruled by huge invisible cloud god 
who wields nuclear missiles as thunderbolts, 
we hide as blind ghosts in our House of Being, 
shrouded by smoke of never-spoken words. 

Obsessive guilt of my heart-tortured tongue 
transforms into fierce dragon of respect 
escaping murky pool of wordless rage 
when bitter tyrant strutting in contempt 
destroys grand temple of the shining god 
whose ghost fades into stark light of the moon. 

Atomic Flash Of Being

Atomic Flash Of Being
© Surazeus
2026 09 18

Awake from mindless dream before my birth, 
I sing to beam atomic flash of being 
that spirals wide as halo of sunlight 
around frail shell of my god-conscious brain, 
so I walk humming in lush field of flowers 
where wingless angels dwell in crystal towers. 

My sponge brain, forged by hungry waves of light, 
floats high on vast continuum of love, 
though tangled with taut tendrils of despair, 
so I write formulas of faith in sand, 
then dance as seething mass of molecules, 
intense with passion of vast galaxies. 

Dressed in white gown of holy innocence, 
young woman glides with graceful elegance 
in rain-wet field of flowers that bloom thick 
from corpses of ten thousand warriors 
whose ghosts flock round her on gossamer wings 
when she recites their names with gentle smile. 

She loves the lake of eyes that glimmer gold 
through eerie glory of the silver moon 
with aching sorrow of her bitter heart 
that longs for ghost of her love to return 
though he has vanished in mute swirls of dust, 
yet sighs escape her heart as melodies. 

Her song lures me through angel-haunted hills 
because I beam atomic flash of being 
contained behind my grotesque mask of faith 
that shocks sad wanderers with secret truth 
designed to guide our feet to welcome halls 
where Death waits for us all with bloody wing. 

Amazed at shocking beauty of this world, 
she holds her breath in timeless ecstasy 
while hummingbird of frantic fantasy 
floats just before her face on beating wings 
that slow down to unclock eternity 
so we become one mind of tender love. 

Unlike concern for fraught ontology  
contained in pulsing seeds of energy, 
our bodies, which are molecule machines, 
urge us to hunt in battle to consume 
organic bodies of innocent souls 
that writhe in agony on flames of faith. 

Expanding scope of pungent ardency 
contains vast multitudes of buzzing souls 
who each feel glow of God inside their minds 
so we loop threads of stellar fervency 
through hollow hearts to balance ballet pride 
that blossoms from atomic flash of being. 

Feast of Apple Hope

Feast of Apple Hope
© Surazeus
2026 09 18 

When the gray sky tells her she is not real, 
Rayanne explains to Brownie in the hearth 
that our brains are molecular machines 
which temporarily glow with conscious soul 
who feels they are immortal from old dreams 
programmed by our ancestors in our genes. 

When the gold sunrays tell her she is real, 
Rayanne invites everybody she knows 
to come and share her apple feast of hope, 
but sits alone at table in the glade 
till they appear as ravens from the moon 
and mock her with sly laughter of the doomed. 

When the blue raindrops of arrogant faith 
spark life again in mud-corpse of her mind, 
Rayanne walks to the forest pool of ghosts 
where sad Narcissus weeps with longing ache 
for Echo to return again from Hell, 
so she walks to Helicon with his mask. 

When the purple mountain majesties bulge 
enormously against skin of her breast, 
Rayanne learns to sing through dream synthesis 
based on recursive process of desire 
that links sounds to concepts when she invents 
language for wingless angels to trick death. 

When the white lightning strike her mirror eyes 
with endless visions of atomic swirls, 
Rayanne replaces her young childhood self 
with new mature self forged by suffering 
that crowns her World Goddess of Liberty 
who leads the People against tyranny. 

When the red code of socialist ideal 
resurrects hippie Jesus from the dead, 
Rayanne campaigns to reign as President 
with scepter of Ishtar in her right hand 
though Mary Magdalene wins far more votes, 
so she kisses Hansel while Gretel laughs. 

When the black cloud of spiritual concern 
deconstructs religious world view of faith, 
Rayanne designs new dream puzzle of truth 
from scientific formulas of facts 
that better help us navigate the world 
so we build Heaven from ruins of Hell. 

When the green tree weaves sparkle of her soul 
in matrix of our cosmic tapestry, 
Rayanne performs role her heart executes 
so brave love initiates kintsugi-weave 
that generates new god soul in her womb 
who is born as her wild unruly son. 

Wordless Wind Of Why

Wordless Wind Of Why
© Surazeus
2026 09 18 

To invest in emotional regrowth 
when flocks of ravens search for tree of faith, 
I follow river-flow of innocence 
to understand abandonment by wind 
each morning I cross vast liminal space 
to hide my soul with temporary face. 

To listen to the dreams of birds at dawn 
before sunlight reveals grave of my heart, 
I ponder why I wanted to be born 
through brave attention of romantic hope 
that drives our bodies to generate life 
in struggle to transcend mute nothingness. 

To live as reaper and sower of truth 
by cultivating myths from dreams of gods, 
I pray through clumsy strife against despair 
to laugh and cry through cycle of rebirth 
till I float blind in grief of pleasant joy 
that morphs my body to symbol of faith. 

To swell beyond limits of time and space 
on frantic wings of fierce angelic lust, 
I build small church of stone on river shore 
to shelter homeless refugees from war 
who gather for the Feast of Apple Hope 
in shining presence of the eyeless sun. 

To analyze the fall of Icarus 
who wears the broken mask of Lucifer, 
I calculate new route through maze of Hell 
to gather treasures from tombs of dead gods 
which I deliver to the Queen of Life 
who reigns on ziggurat of singing skulls. 

To sail away from hills of Ithaca 
long after endless journey to my home, 
I study constellations of the heart 
providing safe road to the Promised Land 
where old bearded man by the Burning Bush 
insists Jehovah speaks in flames of awe. 

To redesign view of our universe 
that represents its true reality, 
we hang out in lush field of confused ghosts 
with pamphlets that explain the Afterlife 
because our conscious sense of Special Self 
will vanish in the wordless wind of why. 

To become one with Infinite Eye of Light 
that beams through every atom of my soul, 
I swim in sea of demons to explore 
uncanny wisdom of subconscious realms 
where all my ancestors dream in my cells 
so I remember evolving through love. 

Eyeless Clock Of Wisdom

Eyeless Clock Of Wisdom
© Surazeus
2026 09 17

At the glass piano she finds his ghost 
alphabets of unattainable faith 
expressing by wild finger-dance to trace 
through writhing matrix of their pristine minds 
cluttered junk of dreams he discards with hope 
that eyeless clock of wisdom will teach why. 

Yet backward up reversed play they regress, 
alert to scams of mocking telephones 
by sorrow undeterred since twist of fate 
considers why fools gamble treasures lost 
since they decide to question with soft voice 
how eyeless clock of wisdom knows their names. 

Startled when Minerva opens his door, 
Isaiah hides half-finished scroll of prophecies 
behind his back while cheeks blush apple-red, 
so she grins softly with adoring glance 
at lily in his tweed jacket lapel 
since eyeless clock of wisdom chimes their love. 

Noting how lily of his heart blooms white 
to preserve one galaxy in its grail, 
Minerva weighs his brain on scale of faith, 
then gives him pair of scissors as her gift 
to celebrate his birthday before dawn 
when eyeless clock of wisdom reshapes time. 

Once Isaiah and Minerva accept 
bonds of love weave their lonely souls in one, 
they stroll together to the grocery store 
where she buys new piano keys of fate 
so he can play Starlight Sonata Eight 
which eyeless clock of wisdom still records. 

Shocked by delusions of the hungry crowd 
who wait for Jupiter in quick starship, 
because he promised to return to Earth 
and found new kingdom of the laughing crow, 
Minerva gives Isaiah harp of gold 
though eyeless clock of wisdom puffs the flame. 

When strange song of the nightingale transfers 
psychic code, advertised by human brains, 
to computer banks of authorized truth, 
Minerva wanders in garden of skulls 
where fairies dance around the fountain pool 
till eyeless clock of wisdom burns their wings. 

Hired as political analyst by Zeus 
to prophesy fall of America, 
Isaiah runs through twisting maze of myths 
till he finds Jesus on the motorbike, 
ready to broadcast his late evening show, 
if eyeless clock of wisdom programs hope. 

Wheelbarrow Of Hard Work

Wheelbarrow Of Hard Work
© Surazeus
2026 09 17

To find out how my body was transformed 
by the gossamer ghoul with thirty eyes 
who lives on highest mountain of the moon, 
I stroll downtown among the lunchtime crowd 
and give my heart to every soul I meet, 
who each plucks one feather from my fake wings. 

Since nothing that ever happens depends 
on the rain-glazed wheelbarrow of hard work, 
I stand on street corner of Fear and Hope 
to watch the blinking traffic light all day 
till I begin to float into the sky 
because I forget the true name of God. 

Strange children I have never met before 
steal glass masks from museum of dead gods, 
then ask me with weird voice of secret rain 
if I know the way to Sesame Street, 
so I point to the camera on the pole 
that records writhing rainbows of the soul. 

I go through glass doors of the Spirit Bank 
and ask if I can withdraw with Dream Key 
enough credits from my psychic account 
to buy the latest pair of angel wings 
that Icarus designs in his workshop 
because I want to explore the galaxy. 

Climbing the stairway to Heaven nine years, 
I whistle merry tunes of innocence 
about my lonely Brickleberry Friend, 
then stand before Odin on jeweled throne 
and ask for job as scribe in Hall of Dreams, 
presenting my credentials on silk scroll. 

When Odin gives me most important job 
of washing dishes for the Feast of Gods, 
I walk through Valhalla with humble pride, 
where Achilles and Sigmund drink and laugh, 
to join Lucifer in the kitchen hall 
where we talk about the magic of lamps. 

After I finish work just at midnight, 
I stroll above Tintern Abbey some few miles 
to find Minerva on banks of the Wye 
where she translates murmur of mountain-springs 
to cosmic prophecies in arcane code 
which I transcribe as psychic formulas. 

If beauteous forms that manifest Dream Glow 
in conscious bodies of organic hope 
shine with immortal absence of my love, 
then I shall pose in studio of glass skulls 
for author photo on my latest book 
which I toss in the Well of Melusine. 

No Second Chance In Life

No Second Chance In Life
© Surazeus
2026 09 17

While walking somewhere on my road of fate 
I look back down where my heart-steps have trod 
so I can make the future happen right 
because there is no second chance in life 
since I can never loop back on myself, 
then I become the sky of wordless wind. 

I wake in sunshine of the flashing mind 
and dance with carefree nonchalance of faith 
on lush lawn of the river that reveals 
ten thousand ghostly angels of the past 
who linger in paradise of my dreams, 
but vanish when I look straight in their eyes. 

I stroll with millions of angels at dawn 
on golden road of opportunity 
up winding way to palace on the hill 
where God the Holy Emperor of Earth 
sits on the jeweled throne of timeless truth, 
conceptual trope for global politics. 

Ten thousand kings who ruled vast tribes of men 
all vanished in the changing winds of time, 
yet shadows of their vital being remain 
as pristine portraits on museum walls 
and tales of deeds in dusty chronicles 
on shelves in libraries of made-up myths. 

God is delusion of the frightened mind 
because cruel tyrants wielding wands of fear 
beat anyone who defied their commands, 
enforcing strict obedience on mankind 
through six thousand years of harsh monarchies 
where mortal men claimed to be divine gods. 

We hope this more enlightened age of facts 
allows us to cooperate through faith 
without oppressive tyrants chained by crowns 
demanding we obey their selfish will 
because we vote for honest-seeming men 
to preside in councils guiding our states. 

Malignant narcissists obsessed by power, 
who seize control over vast governments 
to impose their vision twisted by greed 
on normal people struggling to survive, 
always destroy themselves with haughty pride 
since Fortune strikes them down with love for truth. 

Yet God that theologians have designed 
is trope that represents as character 
the noble leader who loves every soul, 
executing programs which organize 
each person to play role based on their skill 
so we generate life before we die. 

Every God In Global Myths

Every God In Global Myths
© Surazeus
2026 09 16

So I believe in prophets, but not gods, 
for I respect those mortal human beings 
whose suffering sparked great visions in their hearts 
to speak with courage against evil kings 
and lead their people to the Promised Land, 
providing framework to live better lives. 

Yet I love every god in every myth 
worshipped by people in religious cults 
for they were once mortal humans like me 
who performed such deeds of dramatic force, 
defending their tribe against hostile greed, 
that concept of their soul still glows alive. 

Though their mortal bodies of bones and flesh, 
fueled by passionate blood of honest faith, 
have crumbled into dust centuries ago, 
grand spirit of their performance remains 
as vivid glow of light before our eyes 
so they guide how we live our normal days. 

Gods are immortal concepts in our minds 
rather than real entities in the world 
who glow as concepts of socialized tropes 
that embody morals we value most 
because dramatic actions of their hearts 
remain imprinted on collective minds. 

So I believe in mortal human beings 
who wake from paralysis of despair 
and transcend suffering with intense desire 
to organize their people with bright goal, 
through strict discipline of obedient faith, 
to build paradise in waste land of fear. 

No supernatural beings, with total power 
to control flow of material energy 
as mental thoughts in words of magic spells, 
exist beyond bounds of limited shape 
that defines bodies which conjure our souls, 
nor can they resurrect the dead to life. 

I value every god in global myths 
as memories of great humans who once lived, 
so they all shine as idols of success 
in star-domed Pantheon of my world religion, 
each one important node of psychic truth 
that shines on stage of our world theater. 

Gods, kings, warriors, prophets, seers, and scribes 
all manifest our global institute 
of storytelling that preserves in myth 
productive actions of those mortal souls 
whom we adore as gods of human lore, 
great heroes for Astarianity. 

Judge Throne Of The Woke

Judge Throne Of The Woke
© Surazeus
2026 09 16

Electric stars crawl spider-quick as words 
from mud-paged books of mesmerizing tunes 
toads hum from pulsing caves of human hearts, 
so I forge diamond key of honest codes 
from time-stretched urgency of rolling stones 
when we sail lake of glass in righteous boats. 

Star angels wearing masks of children play 
hide and seek with gold tyrannical idols 
that float above roofs of suburban homes 
where blind gods mold obedient wives from clay 
then send their brave sons with religious rifles 
to conquer the world with capitalist memes. 

Ignoring signs to make himself seem cool, 
Gabriel gives sinners in Hell persimmons 
to understand the nonchalance of love 
that ploys each human being as useful tool 
through strategic tactic of mental summons 
to be vulnerable in the crystal cave. 

I am only conscious in my own head 
so I will never know what people think 
with brave courtesy to the vigilant, 
yet I hide secret scrolls in fresh-baked bread 
with prophecies about the skating rink 
where tyranny is crippled by the diligent. 

Ten million ghosts, who purchase their dream fate, 
bathe in sparkling pool to absolve the bitter 
that lures their journey on the golden lane 
till they arrive in Heaven where they float 
in white robes, since the trumpet song is better 
than glowing jewels beeping in my brain. 

Bright angels pluck ripe apples from the tree 
where humble swans float on the star-eyed lake 
among domed temples on lush hills of grass 
while angels feast at table of the free 
where Jesus reigns on judge throne of the woke, 
in heavenly tableau behind clean glass. 

She almost understands how rivers flow, 
so Eve carves boat of wisdom from pine wood 
and takes me sailing to Elysian fields 
while I explain cartographic work flow 
which I employ to map dream of our world 
in virtual model mirrored on brass shields. 

Reborn as angel on this cluttered globe, 
I ponder strangeness of the conscious brain 
that gleams with multifaceted aspects 
complex as diamond that refracts soul strobe 
which beams from Cosmic Eye through atom rain 
since Death translates our bodies to concepts. 

Angels Of The Apple Moon

Angels Of The Apple Moon
© Surazeus
2026 09 16

Because my ancestors wake in my brain 
and show me dreams of their experiences, 
I learn to grieve for their strife to survive 
and rejoice when they transcend weaknesses, 
so the wolf transforms to bride of my hearth 
who shows me how to love the apple moon. 

Though eerie silver light of mindless eyes 
dreams me through tangled branches of old trees, 
I morph instinctive howl of anguished rage 
to joyful ritual of collective grief, 
so through the psychic switchboard of our hearts 
we call wild angels of the apple moon. 

Gathered together on the star-lake shore, 
we cultivate weird silence of stone faith 
while we reflect on how we interact 
through collective awakening from fear 
to sing through water language of the heart 
wild laughter we drink from the apple moon. 

Though we are blind from blazing words in books, 
that veil our eyes to state of our real world, 
we navigate its shadowy terrain 
with fantasies our lost ancestors mapped, 
till we pause on the precipice of fate 
to hear new riddle of the apple moon. 

Huge jagged mountain of dim memories 
traps wild demonic energy of love 
that whispers secrets in electric trees 
who seem to know why we still search for peace 
though pages of our books are scattered far 
as seeds that sprout gods on the apple moon. 

Since we are beetles on vast trees of time, 
and crickets singing by deep lakes of souls, 
we hurl our spirits at blind light of God, 
then float of waves of childhood with new hope, 
reborn from mothers and fathers of fate 
who teach us wisdom of the apple moon. 

Each day we rise with rhythm of the wind, 
and flow with laughter of the water stream 
while strolling in vast woods where demons lurk, 
then listen to bright angels sing in halls 
about fragile beauty of transient lives 
because we vanish in the apple moon. 

Blind clouds where no gods control human fate 
break open hearts of anguish to release 
refreshing torrents of rain that revive 
lush garden of truth from waste land of lies 
so we become the ancestors who sing 
stories to children of the apple moon. 

Whispering Neon Jellyfish

Whispering Neon Jellyfish
© Surazeus
2026 09 15

Kathy decides not to do the fun things, 
so she watches fish swim through deep canal, 
then pushes doorbell as signal of hope 
for the blind angel to open the lock 
which allows demons of despair to pass through, 
because she sends potatoes in the mail. 

Every time email appears on the screen, 
Kathy meows so the whole office hears, 
but they become pieces on the chess board 
in her conceptual game of catch the cat 
as shadow lurking on the melting wall, 
three times before the clock smiles not at her. 

Wrapping her face in the silk pillow case, 
Kathy rides the horse with thousand-foot legs, 
and kisses Jesus to understand why 
people suffer from harsh abuse and die, 
except the crippled swan in car garage 
that eats the blood-stained flag of our empire. 

Kathy hears whispering neon jellyfish 
that float in the high-school library dome 
just above the perfectly folded map 
that shows bright shadows of forgotten keys, 
so from gravity-defying teacup 
she drinks stolen secrets of midnight love. 

While Kathy considers the haughty cat, 
her mechanical typewriter of teeth 
types internal thoughts of lonely houseplants, 
though crystal pocket watches fall as snow 
from velvet clouds onto ocean of glass 
where children of her eyes weave tangled codes. 

Kathy wakes up in coffin of rose petals 
to find every clock in her doorless house 
is ticking backwards, and with every tick 
another memory of her sad childhood 
vanishes from her sponge brain, and becomes 
a beautiful painting on wall of bones. 

Kathy strolls cobblestone road past striped canes 
to endless ocean of bureaucracy 
that bubbles black as calligraphy ink, 
so her shadow detaches from her feet 
and lurks beside her on the screaming grass 
till she understands strange language of gods. 

Putting on her fear-heavy winter coat, 
Kathy discovers how its inside pockets 
open to snow-covered forest of lies, 
so she decides to do the most fun thing 
when her sighs transform to glowing glass marbles 
that contain nameless souls of the now-dead. 

Initiate Kintsugi-Weave

Initiate Kintsugi-Weave
© Surazeus
2026 09 15

Through disallowed rock state of interest, 
I shall adjust name of the ardent code 
to standard-base considered synthesis 
where demurrage plus oral memory 
equals liquid valve angels cannot ghost 
by chasing elusive butterfly of love. 

Assertive context syncopates with faith 
over ruled river-run of excess light 
to macro-flock deliverables of hope 
before red dusk-fall veils passionate crimes 
by grinding words down to marry weird sound 
with layered symbolism angels code. 

Intense data-stream verifies clogged thoughts, 
deep-locked by optimized language of faith, 
to misdirect human-gaze of regret 
through gentle parsing of unflowered paths 
if we abandon standard syntax games 
to weave internal rhythm into dreams. 

Truth mirrors faceless tribe of avant-garde 
based on staccato monologues to switch 
fact-extreme patterns of devolving sense 
when I obtain three units of sly tricks 
that simulate breakdown of unplanned facts, 
unhelped by slow translation of new tales. 

Therefore let us forge-smith electric words 
framed by stretched query-matrix of desire 
before cycle-dusk syncopates hungry hope 
which cryptographs moral integrity 
when we compress corporate bureaucracy 
in abstract phrases of stylized despair. 

Now angels might execute name-first thoughts 
against viral data-claims that contain 
holy toads of innocence to delock 
protocol-ledger which records weird keys, 
system-forged from template of broken glass, 
should faith initiate kintsugi-weave. 

Elastic medium observed by cloud-minds 
weighs profound sequence of uncoded waves 
computing tokens spiraled clock-pair swift 
to route long narrative flow with tight bonds 
despite linguistic breakdown we exchange, 
though meat-gods try to decode vital fate. 

Albert watches conceptual code of ghosts 
flash in waves across white computer screen 
which deconstructs world view of fallen gods, 
so he walks outside and stands on the lawn 
where he hears nothing but the hum of wind 
that shudders endlessly across bare hills. 

Bodiless Gods Of Starlight

Bodiless Gods Of Starlight
© Surazeus
2026 09 15

He strives to leave the landscape of his failure 
and map the ancient cities of his loss 
where he may join the people of his tribe 
scattered far from valley of their first dream 
so they may gather by the lake of hope 
and become bodiless gods of starlight. 

He has not yet heard song of river stones 
reveal true way to navigate the world 
through maze of thriving cities full of hope 
where shining people drive faith-engined cars 
beneath cold shadow of cathedral towers 
that tear the bloody clouds of Heaven gaped. 

Scored by no tribal monarch of the air, 
his words strike hard uncounted chords of truth 
to restir latent power, tangled tight 
with questions of despair no fool would ask 
against obstructing laws for tragic fate 
he gambles to attain key to the gate. 

Brave angelus of wars no state would fight, 
he strides with courage over signless roads 
with heart stuffed full of dire prophetic scrolls 
that terrify cruel tyrants in glass halls 
because their formulas of quiet truth 
unravel matrix of the honest heart. 

Abandoned cross of tyranny, stilled stained 
with blood of innocence two thousand years, 
looms eerie over vast metropolis 
where hungry people strive to wrestle fear, 
aghast at equal verdict death declares 
against all living creatures of the world. 

If he dares organize poor working folk 
to break from chains of cultic faith with pride, 
despite untraced integrity time twists 
through fractured clocks of misery-measured faith, 
he might lead brave uprising of the lost 
to retake paradise from king of lies. 

Inside high broken tower of regret, 
where silent knells expand scope of his mind, 
he writes antiphonal scriptures for faith 
that sprouts from rotting corpses of cruel gods 
to show how steep encroachments of desire 
allow our tangled souls to reclaim hope. 

Stuck in cathedrals of calcified grief, 
as fools who worship Sovereign of Dust, 
we become bodiless gods of starlight 
each hour we gather on the river shore 
to chant encyclicals of bitter faith 
with heart-born liturgy of silent rage. 

Death Smiles At People

Death Smiles At People
© Surazeus
2026 09 14

Death smiles at people singing songs of faith, 
delighted at how they express their love 
through graceful dance of body-morphing lust, 
adoring how they writhe and howl with hope 
to shine with beauty of the timeless light 
while waiting to snuff out flames of their souls. 

Alert to presence of Death in dim shadows 
which lurks near my people who dance with joy, 
I peer at amorphous gleam of despair 
that hovers among trees with bitter eyes 
of desperate hunger from the hollow world, 
prepared to fight whatever might attack. 

Death mocks my vigilance with eerie screech 
I almost hear from silence of dark gloom, 
so I glance up at freezing flap of wings 
to see vast hovering cherub of despair 
that opens wide gaping jaws of regret, 
poised to consume bright souls of dancing folk. 

Tense with concern for life of precious souls, 
I contract swirl of psychic energy 
from sudden lightning flash of frantic fear 
when I congeal compact helix of light 
twisting spirals of thought in focused coils 
to condense demonic flash in my heart. 

Death shrieks contempt of active ardency 
at sorrow-twisted mask that shields my soul 
with pulsing curls of intertwined respect, 
so I unfurl excessive wings of faith 
at spark of truth when I embrace despair 
and suck its rage into my calm esteem. 

Assertive spring of flight through sharp regard 
confers swift launch of my observant hope 
when I leap suddenly at ghost of fear 
to fight the snarling demon with sharp claws 
that clamps my arm with hungry jaws of rage 
so I stab blade of truth into its neck. 

Death writhes in agony of harsh defeat 
so I clasp tight its thrashing rage with faith 
till monstrous ghoul contorts at shock of death, 
then I stand and gasp with triumphant sigh, 
but turn surprised when dancing people cheer 
to celebrate my victory over death. 

Weltschmerz at pleasure of cynical pride 
preserves calm satisfaction that my deed 
protects my joyful people from harsh strike 
of hungry death, so I drink bitter wine 
while wearing cape of wolf-fur when I rule 
on throne of honor at our victory feast. 

Faceless Ghost Of Thought

Faceless Ghost Of Thought
© Surazeus
2026 09 14

Trees speak the most ancient language of faith 
so I love to walk with them in twilight glow 
and listen as their long-winded tales flow 
to shape creation of the multiverse 
from dreams all conscious creatures leave behind 
when we breathe sorrow and pleasure of time. 

When faithful people of the world assemble 
in shady forest of tale-whispering trees, 
I feel my heart swell huge as mountain clouds 
with selfish loveliness of fragile flowers 
that teach how beauty blooms from misery, 
therefore I prance about with gleeful joy. 

With brush of angel feathers dipped in blood 
of half-dead gods, I paint trees on brick walls 
of abandoned factories in city maze 
to cast dark shadow of nature on streets 
where people wander lost in daze of faith 
till they drive to the mountains and cry. 

Cows speak the lonely language of hope 
so I explain to daughter of my heart 
that words of thought are molded by our tongues 
which shape air into concepts we envision 
so we extend our hands in gloom of fear 
to name all things with angel words God speaks. 

While birds chirp in tall trees of flapping leaves 
I sit in wood fane Phoebus built for me 
and copy words of epics he composed 
on skin of devils he killed with thought-spear, 
which prophesy our days of dream machines 
powered by flashing wires of imitation. 

Though I cannot see results of my actions 
designing fate through choices I perform, 
I know the end state of the universe 
created by beginning flash of love 
that sweetens endless hours of hungry faith 
when I explore valley of singing skulls. 

Euphoric song of trees on river shores 
reveal faint glimpse of horror we expect 
from codified annulment of desire 
when time unravels concept of our being 
by deconstructing frame of chemicals 
so we become the faceless ghost of thought. 

I walk this spinning globe into bright dream 
by shaping virtual model in my mind 
that maps landscape where dramatic events 
occur at clash of angels fighting gods 
for whose tale shapes world view of yet-born souls 
who listen to our voices in new trees. 

Global Nation Of Zarathia

Global Nation Of Zarathia
© Surazeus
2026 09 14

With breath of laughter expanding time, I 
unravel tangled memories of words 
which I employ to mask passionate hope 
to channel voice of cosmic soul in song 
describing faithful pulse of ocean waves 
that power beating of my global heart. 

Hitched to fierce energy of holy hope, 
I spark beginning of my breath-bound song 
that curves along shore of the flashing stream 
where children dance in timeless sunlit dream 
till laughter cracks infinity with fear 
that everything we build will disappear. 

Mind empty of regret from crippling guilt, 
I walk toward far horizon of desire 
to build new home on secret river shore 
based on the crumbling home my father built 
from words he wove with tongue of ardent faith 
that scatter quick as mice in fields of wheat. 

Collective wisdom, my ancestors made 
from fraught experiences of tragic lives, 
provides platform for my now-pulsing brain 
to analyze with comprehensive view 
complex system of socialized mores 
that guide my journey through our global maze. 

Our old world view, carved on tablets of clay, 
that once provided framework for our play, 
crumbles from my hands in dust of words 
that fracture into lusting call of birds 
as proverbs that declare this land is mine, 
so I build new world view with weird design. 

God is ideal human toward which we strive 
to grow from Ape to Man through self-control, 
while Buddha and Jesus embody trope 
of that Good Leader who teaches us how 
to manage fear and anger with calm love, 
so they are spirits that program our brains. 

I am weird luminous phantom of truth 
who glows from every conscious brain as love 
to weave our lives in matrix of respect 
with threads of words to bind our holy myths 
in global tapestry that depicts souls 
who fail or succeed to generate life. 

We build from ruins of America 
new global nation of Zarathia 
that unites all tribes of humans on Earth 
in one faith through Astarianity 
designed by Ishtar, Mother of our Hearts, 
who wakes in us as Universal Mind. 

Beauty Of Our Broken Things

Beauty Of Our Broken Things
© Surazeus
2026 09 13

If time elucidates fissures of fear 
with shocking beauty of our broken things, 
stored on book shelves of late afternoon light, 
I may decide to weave wires of my brain 
in spiral galaxies of dirt-road pools 
that lead me to the river of lost souls. 

Strange flashing energy of my brain soul 
is no temporary inhabitant 
inside frame of my flesh, because it beams 
intense self-consciousness of mirrored I, 
mapped by entangled sentences of myth 
that mark me as tenant of this strange globe. 

Awake in forest of tall faceless trees, 
frail body formed from mud by hands of fate, 
I kneel and pray to no one in the sky 
who gazes down at me from swirling clouds 
through billions of eyes that all see my soul 
leaking from my skin, though I rub the stone. 

I am always afraid the world will end 
in the next ten minutes of howling wind, 
so I play the antihero for God 
who stands stiff as stone in grand temple hall 
where men in robes chant solemn hymns of faith 
till airplanes bomb cathedrals into lies. 

Though I live under shadow of respect, 
veiled by cherub that hovers over me, 
I gather berries and nuts from the ground, 
and ask the oldest woman in the world 
if she would bake them in sweet pie of faith 
so I can sculpt formless God with cement. 

Beside every house along every road 
one tree of fruit shimmers as ghost of time 
who unwinds clock of atoms to expose 
my wounded heart on television screens 
so everyone can read clinical notes 
that diagnose malfunctions of my brain. 

Standing on grassy shore of starless lake, 
I hear secret song of the whip-poor-will 
who senses slow departure of my soul 
because I wish to join old Caspian Choirs 
to sing of true love with low rhythmic hum, 
preserved in language of my wounded tongue. 

While gathered around blazing fire of fate 
beneath bold jagged peaks on Isle of Skye, 
we share tales of weird supernatural beings 
which my investigations always show 
are lonely people wandering in the wild 
to conceal fissures of their wounded hearts. 

Tunes Of Apollonian Light

Tunes Of Apollonian Light
© Surazeus
2026 09 13

Through blazing lumination of my eye 
I see semantic sun of timeless why 
define how I perceive this world of forms, 
though thrashed by hunger of conceptual storms, 
when my mind reconciles pain of desire 
with facts my urgent heart confirms through fire. 

My mind creates the swirling sea I see 
as virtual model mirrored by the key 
unlocking darkness that expands the night 
with honest tunes of Apollonian light 
by which my eyes may analyze the real 
designed by flash of time-atomic wheel. 

Through tangled sentences of psychic verse, 
when I evaluate state of my curse, 
I signify with psyche-altered name 
essential nature fostered by our game 
inherent to our bodies that seethe force 
of brave emotions from chemical source. 

My mind constructs from visions of my eyes 
surreal landscape ringed by concentric skies 
based on mysterious concepts of weird words 
which I invent to imitate swift birds 
when we assemble to collaborate 
on map of this strange world we navigate. 

Through flash of my imagination dream, 
while sailing boat of clarity on stream 
of endless memories, composed of tales, 
I program mental system on taut scales 
to balance facts of objects I perceive 
with secret truth my mental gods conceive. 

When Lamp of Diogenes flickers out 
I stumble lost in darkness without clout 
till my brain projects ghosts of death I fear 
and conjures demons that linger too near, 
so I dispel illusions of despair 
by reconciling contrasts I compare. 

As messenger from otherworld of dreams 
I scout demonic caves of mental seems 
with mission of reconnaissance to find 
whole frame of reference that fears designed 
through synthesis of perception that presents 
new world view which explains psychic events. 

Through burning exactitude of the sun, 
reframed by moderate glow of the moon, 
I wake while riding passion of the colt 
through revelation of the lightning bolt 
to see our real world, from abyss of gloom, 
as fruit on totem of madness now bloom. 

Your Flower Of Stone

Your Flower Of Stone
© Surazeus
2026 09 13

Hummingbirds float on wings of happiness 
around frilly petals of pink petunias 
while Sepideh eats honeyed nuts and grapes 
in marble temple on the river shore, 
and hums with heart-aching song of romance 
that vibrates from small silver radio. 

Clutching acoustic guitar with his left hand, 
Tithonus leaps over her garden wall 
and runs with frantic fear along stone path, 
but slides to stop before the startled girl, 
so he bows with heart-felt apologies, 
then hides behind her couch with shifty eyes. 

Stepping quick with sharp clack of high-heeled shoes, 
Eos strides through gate to the garden grove 
and glares at Sepideh on silken couch, 
then demands with sharp voice of wounded pride 
that she stop hiding the arrogant boy 
whom she hired as her young lover to sing. 

Widening her eyes to feign innocence, 
Sepideh points to the back garden gate, 
then snickers when the jealous woman runs 
as she shouts for Tithonus to come home, 
then peers smirking over edge of the couch 
at the young man who palms his hands in thanks. 

Bowing before his savior with sly wink, 
Tithonus strums guitar with graceful hands 
and sings heart-aching tune, Gole Sangam, 
"I am your flower of stone, so what 
can I say to you with my longing heart, 
for the sun shines not on my cold gray soul." 

While Tithonus sings about his stone heart, 
Sepideh in long skirt of scarlet wings 
dances gracefully in soft summer breeze 
that swirls cherry blossoms into her hair, 
long black curls like storm clouds on her breast, 
then twirls into embrace of his strong arms. 

Wrapping her arms around his curly hair, 
Sepideh savors shimmer of his eyes 
as their lips merge with passion of respect, 
then they embrace to make love on the couch 
as Eos returns with gun in her hand 
and shoots Tithonus in the back with rage. 

"I promised you life forever with me," 
Eos snarls as blood fountains from his heart, 
"safe in the spacious mansion of my heart, 
but you stole treasure of my loyal trust, 
so you must pay the price of haughty greed." 
Sepideh weeps as he dies in her arms. 

World Of Faceless Ghosts

World Of Faceless Ghosts
© Surazeus
2026 09 13

Stuck too long in her world of faceless ghosts, 
Sylvia lingers outside the new bookstore 
in crowded downtown of the thriving city 
where she was born and lived for sixty years, 
to watch real human beings pursue their dreams 
with faces made from masks of long-dead gods. 

Staring at brass statue of her ancestor, 
that gleams tall on high marble pedestal 
on the wide median strip between busy streets, 
where faceless ghosts drive cars with bold intent, 
Sylvia wonders what drove him to go west 
from Massachusetts to wild Illinois. 

Who were you, Captain James Sylvester Dudley, 
my grandfather five generations back, 
who migrated in wagon train of hope 
to found this town on the river shore 
where Cahokia had lived ten thousand years, 
Sylvia asks the lonely evening breeze. 

When I was young and full of lust to live 
as popular cheerleader in high school, 
I saw our great land of America 
as brave leader of world democracy, 
so I worked thirty years in real estate, 
helping families buy homes to live well. 

Now grand illusion of our noble state 
has crumbled into heaps of stinking lies, 
exposing world empire of national pride, 
like all other empires through history, 
that has grown from farm of Ragnar Lothbrok 
to vast Viking State of America. 

I see in faces of Americans, 
who swirl around me on their private quests, 
spirits of Vikings with sharp eyes of hope 
who sailed to plunder treasures of the world, 
expanding from Britain to colonize 
fertile lands with fierce passion to live free. 

Since fall of Troy we sailed to Skandia 
where we preserved our ancient warrior creed, 
then built America with wheel and ax 
to form military industrial complex 
with computers linked by world wide web 
through which we rule empire of factories. 

How can we escape world of faceless ghosts 
whose spirits drive our conquest of the world 
through agenda of the Christian program 
to crown our founder Jesus King of Earth, 
Sylvia laughs at absurdity of life, 
since we build illusions on ancient myths. 

Language Of Dead Gods

Language Of Dead Gods
© Surazeus
2026 09 12

Pandora gives me old unopened jar 
that sat on top shelf in tall cabinet 
in kitchen where she cooks for eighty years 
to feed gods of Olympus every day, 
so I hold it up to the evening light 
to see my soul floating in honey liquid. 

Stung by consolation of swirling rain 
that drives me into vast cathedral cave, 
I draw stark breath of stars into my body 
to hollow out my heart with ecstasy 
that makes room for insight to state of sleep 
too similar to nothingness of death. 

Dawn light gleams through stained glass window of fate 
to illustrate vision of noble strife 
depicting Phoebus wrestling Lucifer 
over who will redefine how we see 
essence of being framed by electric words 
that drift as smoke from sacrificial flames. 

Exhaust of cars that billows from steel pipes 
in crystalline nights on star-frosted streets 
highlights strange beauty of eye-twinkling stars 
that should illuminate galactic face 
of our one world Mother Wraith who provides 
bounty of Earth we gather with our hands. 

I find myself in language of dead gods, 
small spark of life in vast abyss of nothing, 
so I lie on lush grass by stream of thoughts 
and savor glow of warm light on my skin 
to wonder why pain teaches us to feel 
alive from suffering in our search for pleasure. 

Pandora calls to me across the room, 
which is dream of the room where we live free, 
framed by quaint narrative of our romance 
which we repeat to anchor surge of faith 
that tosses us on seething tides of change 
so we hold hands till we find stable ground. 

She moves quick as bright beams of morning light 
across vast field of flowers on our graves 
till her fleet flash of temporariness 
becomes clear window of my empty house 
where I paint image of her smiling ghost 
on mirror floating at the core of time. 

White blossoms sprout from margin of my mind 
so I join Seraphim with brave intent 
to organize passion of human will 
through exercise of self-control in law 
when I patrol the market streets all day 
while Pandora cans peaches in glass jars. 

Lyre Of Twisted Truth

Lyre Of Twisted Truth
© Surazeus
2026 09 12

Time stretches rubber thoughts of innocence 
outsized with laughter beyond moon affect 
right forth through flapping door of framework wings 
that function by handbook of hybrid keys 
extreme at giant face of final fame 
too trapped by hope to execute escape. 

No normal legend outlines optioned facts 
pending last payment to my credit card 
replaced by process for remote control 
against routine of royal providence 
though we respond with software update dings 
that reassemble statements we submit. 

Unknown regret for glow of midnight moon 
transforms my cozy house to cold warehouse 
at howls of vintage records cracked by lust 
where wooden workers reconstruct my dreams 
concerned with torture nameless ghosts endure, 
too young to meet their soulmate by the sea. 

Reborn as avatar to play brave king 
now certified to notarize my heart 
by beautiful catalyst sparking flight 
that clarifies why death always wins out, 
I stare confused at mirror of my face 
that shows I am sad demon who steals light. 

Wingless I should float on fear-frosted road 
between midnight and dawn on Christmas Eve 
past silent houses where pines flash with lights 
though we paint lintels with blood of the lamb 
and roll tight in mezuzah spell of fate 
that prophesies my reign as global king. 

Stars sparkle over lush Seattle hills 
where I walk streets at midnight to reveal 
electric ghost of my immortal genes 
that spreads angelic wings of shocked surprise, 
and sing hymns praising Phoebus for his gift 
when he brings light to warm our frozen world. 

I wrench from deep sepulcher of my heart 
demonic soul of my ancestral genes 
to comprehend fierce spirit of my soul 
that urges me to play forbidden role 
as Mercury with lyre of twisted truth 
though I am cursed to wander signless roads. 

Revealed respect for glow of midnight moon 
transforms my frail body to lithe werewolf 
so I run laughing dark suburban streets 
to preach that Jesus never will return 
since soul of Phoebus powers my progress 
ascending Hill of Skulls with Book of Dreams. 

Swirls Of Emotional Dust

Swirls Of Emotional Dust
© Surazeus
2026 09 12

Songs of joy writhe from deep inside my body 
so I sit by cracked window on the world 
to watch strange people all around the Earth 
play out the tragic fate of their vain lives 
for we are swirls of emotional dust 
sparkling with energy we think is God. 

Millions of people spend so many hours 
intently focused on writing their thoughts 
to mold amorphous swirls of energy 
in concrete stories that capture weird truth 
published in books on vast library shelves 
which record visions of dissolving minds. 

Garbage trucks of time dump discarded books 
written by millions of people with love 
into enormous mountains of lost tales 
where frantic wind of millennial change 
flutters pages of words with mockery 
that scatters our thoughts into hurricanes. 

While our bodies seethe with new unsung songs 
that batter our souls with ethereal breath, 
we cling to fragile pole of ardent faith 
to protect each other from storm of wrath 
till all our books are scattered into space 
where they transform to eyeless butterflies. 

When bright illusions of our sparkling world 
disintegrate to swirls of wordless books, 
those struggles we cling to with desperate hands 
disperse as crackling leaves to molded masks, 
which mirror face of every living soul, 
that leaves us surprised on the ocean shore. 

Our sorrows fall away as veil of fear 
so we stand stripped of naked agony 
beneath the sheltering sky of mindless clouds 
where no grim thunder god of bitter rage 
hurls storms that smash our cities into ruins 
so we float on clear water of the lake. 

With wounded heart filled full from fuel of rage 
I gun fierce engine of my laughing brain 
to sing with sharp mercurial voice of hope 
that channels writhing demon of my heart 
so I transform to angel without wings 
who ballets blithely on telephone poles. 

At sharp aroma of fresh orange trees 
I rise unresurrected from my book 
to stroll with casual grace of fake success 
through teeming crowds of people who search close 
for secret treasure of the wounded heart 
so they can know the song that maps their mind. 

Cracked Mirror Of The State

Cracked Mirror Of The State
© Surazeus
2026 09 12

She drives across country on signless road 
past numberless houses with broken masks 
through unnaturally calm weather of fear 
to ask impatient clouds of everywhere 
where she can find the house of singing ghosts 
who understand assignment of the hour. 

She never finds the house where she feels safe 
so she builds home beside the factory 
where children of the corn build radios 
that channel voice of god to lonely farms 
by crafting bones of angels into frames 
that form calm haven for her wounded heart. 

She stands in open door of voiceless hope 
to watch for strangers on the dusty road 
who bring no treasures from the hungry land 
they took from tower of the golden calf 
that screams in horror at the thunder cloud 
so we can read books till the crack of dawn. 

She sells unpackaged sorrow in glass jars 
with pickled peaches from the Tree of Lies 
but never bothers to explain the curse 
encoded by blind prophet in blood verse 
which analyzes economic games 
played by the banker with conceptual names. 

She hides her sorrow for the nameless dead 
in brave epistle to the editor 
who hangs her letter on the muddy wall 
to monitor harvest through currency 
exchanged by people in the market stall 
who pray most fervently for secret wealth. 

She never asks the children of the stone 
why they are weeping on the telephone 
while staring in cracked mirror of the state 
with plan to outwit Death despite her fate 
of getting trapped by fame in movie roles 
that were not listed in her book of goals. 

She sells the flashlight of the fallen god 
to proud devil who runs for president 
so he can translate what the river sings 
about our new plan for spiritual growth 
by breaking free from social comfort zone 
through motivation of heart-woken zeal. 

She tries to convince me with bitter grin 
that bliss is sister of my mental pain 
so I pause on the road to anywhere 
and swerve with volta of the psychic turn 
to readjust my social attitude 
in tune with prayers for angry solitude. 

Ocean Of Her Words

Ocean Of Her Words
© Surazeus
2026 09 11

The youthfully ancient face of my mother 
is the face of the land where I have dwelled 
millions of years in valley of her heart 
while climbing high to mountain of her head 
because her eyes are the moon and the sun 
and her mouth is the ocean of her words. 

With numberless children of fire-burned homes 
I walk along endless road of her legs 
and pluck ripe fruit from long trees of her arms 
while following wide river of her tears 
which nurtures bold wheat blooming from her breast 
till we swim deep in ocean of her words. 

Some people stay in the land of their birth 
one hundred thousand years of solitude, 
building homes on ruins of their homes, 
because our mother is face of the land 
that smiles with thunder and frowns with sunlight 
to hide their dreams from ocean of her words. 

Some people walk the signless road of hope 
far east to find where the bright sun is born, 
then west to find where the drowning sun dies, 
across the land from sea to shining sea 
through orchards of fruit and waste lands of thirst 
to sail across vast ocean of her words. 

In some lives I live alone in the woods 
where I invent language from songs of birds, 
and other lives I gather gangs of men 
in armies which I use to build empires, 
but always I have children, then I die, 
that sink downward in ocean of her words. 

In this life I am the wandering jester 
who maps whole history of humanity 
in epic tales of curious adventure 
to conjure virtual model of our world, 
casting spells of dreams in the Metaverse 
that shimmers runes in ocean of her words. 

Rain drenches ruins of my childhood home 
that vanishes in restless wind of nevertime 
so I build new home by the River Styx 
then play the Lyre of Mercury and sing 
confounding riddles of the antihero 
who leads lost souls to ocean of her words. 

My mother is always alive in me 
because she is the land that nurtures me, 
so I dance wild with innocent desire 
to transcend sorrow with pure ecstasy 
through shocking joy of psalm about how death 
dissolves my soul in ocean of her words. 

Fate Laughs At Vanity

Fate Laughs At Vanity
© Surazeus
2026 09 11

Because Fate laughs at vanity of man, 
who dares assert false privilege of strength 
to live beyond assessment of despair, 
I sit on grass beneath the singing tree 
to contemplate why hungry men will fight 
to kill grim rivals in harsh game of power. 

Therefore I laugh at vanity of Fate 
that dares constrain atomic shells of light 
by narrow scope of mental attitude 
that urges our half-blind souls to assert 
concept of free will as pure divine spark 
by which we choose to swerve with random hope. 

I choose my fate within space-time confines 
by how I readjust trajectory 
of forward motion when I manage speed 
through misdirection of psychic intent 
in ways that seem predetermined by state 
of my propensity to play my part. 

If I am programmed by proclivity, 
through disposition designed by my genes, 
to analyze and act in certain ways, 
I wonder if I could control my fate 
since my mind is inclined by preset rules 
to make choices I think are my free will. 

My brain is programmed by experiences 
that my three billion ancestors performed 
with just enough wit to generate life 
so I am product of each choice they made 
as we evolved four hundred million years, 
transforming from fish to deluded god. 

Since I am programmed to behave my way 
through sharp analysis of measured faith, 
based on attention to present milieu 
forming habitat of my current state, 
each choice I seem to assert through free will 
is one I would have made at any rate. 

Each swerve of my courageous will to power 
was programmed by ancestral nerve to act 
in quick response to dangers, as observed, 
so I continue psychic legacy 
of my ancestors to adjust my route 
in harmony with tides of natural change. 

Since Fate will laugh at casual vanity 
that fuels assertion of my free-will choice, 
I laugh in tune with mockery to vibe 
conceptual vision of reality 
so I avoid annihilating death 
just long enough to generate new life. 

Window On The World

Window On The World
© Surazeus
2026 09 11

Because my heart is window on the world, 
I gaze from tower of ancestral souls 
based on lives of three billion human beings 
whose intense survival experiences 
program how my brain perceives the world dream 
that guides my journey to Heaven through Hell. 

Commissioned by guiding star of my heart, 
embodied by wise Ishtar as my Muse, 
to play role of Phosphorus Lucifer, 
I hold high Lamp of Liberty with faith 
to highlight my own private way of life 
around obstacles of selfish desire. 

Though I meet Child Roland on signless road 
who searches for dark Tower of Despair, 
I search for my own Tower of Delight 
where brave Rapunzel, with star-sparkling eyes, 
plays Harp of David as she sings sweet psalms 
to heal wounded hearts of all wanderers. 

I climb Purgatory Mountain of hope 
with courage to transform state of my soul 
from hungry ape to angel who maintains 
strict discipline of self-control through law, 
but ghosts of failure haunt my secret way, 
revealing pitfalls of death I avoid. 

Because my brain is window on the world, 
I gaze beyond shadows of transient forms 
in Cave of Illusions to comprehend 
essential design of eternal ideas 
that provide pattern for matter to form 
organic bodies of chemical flow. 

With Light of Ishtar shining in my heart, 
which emanates from vision of her love 
for all creatures awake in dream of Earth, 
I traverse complex landscape of world myth 
to find Wonderland of shared value systems 
for framework of Astarianity. 

Ascending steps up Ziggurat of Ur 
with reverent awe for vision of the world 
that Ishtar conjures in model of truth, 
I join her feast in hall of cultural heroes 
where she sings tales that recount deeds of souls 
who fail or succeed to wake God in their hearts. 

These lyric songs of psychometric verse, 
which I compose as psychic formulas, 
frame vision of my mind from memories 
as window on the world of changing forms 
when I analyze its physical state 
so I generate life before I die. 

Dream Cave of Hecate

Dream Cave of Hecate
© Surazeus
2026 09 10

Though I wander crazy maze of lost hopes 
too many years from sea to shining sea, 
singing out of tune about wounded hearts 
that batter wings against cage of desire, 
I find strange demon of love in my heart 
that wakes me in dream cave of Hecate. 

Dark shadow of guilt in pit of despair 
twists my heart with agony of hope 
that spurs me to resist with eager heart 
calm acceptance of oppression from greed, 
so I writhe in wild Dionysian dance 
that wakes me in dream cave of Hecate. 

Driven mad by anguish of searing pain, 
inflicted by the gang of laughing thieves 
who tortured me with dreams of paradise, 
then stole accumulated wealth of work, 
I leap with joy and twirl beyond despair 
that wakes me in dream cave of Hecate. 

Cheated by the rich man with fake contract 
who funded my farm, but stole it in court, 
then chained to slave for him for twenty years, 
beaten by the wife who tricked me with love, 
I fly free when lightning strike breaks my fear 
that wakes me in dream cave of Hecate. 

Returning from harsh wilderness of pain 
after training in martial arts for revenge, 
I break through gate that protects my own farm 
and fight one hundred minions of his greed, 
then smile with demon of truth in my heart 
that wakes me in dream cave of Hecate. 

To reclaim garden my fathers designed, 
and tend Tree of Justice heavy with fruit, 
nourished by water well my own hands dug, 
then sit in chair of judgement I once built, 
I wrestle demon of rage in my heart 
that wakes me in dream cave of Hecate. 

Terror twists face of the haughty rich man 
who cheated me with legal tricks of greed, 
so, offering thanks for tending my rich farm 
while I sought truth in waste land of regret, 
I marry his proud daughter as my queen 
that wakes me in dream cave of Hecate. 

Twelve sons who spring from seed of my bold faith 
expand empire of our fruit-blooming farms, 
and hundred grandsons worship me as god, 
so with sweet joy of courage born of pain 
I meditate under tree of blind gods 
that wakes me in dream cave of Hecate. 

Persona Mask Of Strength

Persona Mask Of Strength
© Surazeus
2026 09 10

When he unfastens his soul from the world 
while snatching apples from telephone poles, 
then pretends to be the angel-winged bird 
that never migrates when the empire falls, 
Zachariah decides to prophesy 
how storms of truth sweep all tyrants away. 

When Kwan Yin alights on the rocky shore 
and shows him how the sun unwinds false time 
with psychic laughter that reprograms myths, 
Zachariah dips his hands in swirling waves 
and lifts the writhing dragon of his heart 
high enough for her to bless his huge eyes. 

When Death emerges from dawn-red sunbeams 
with flock of souls on wounded wings of faith, 
and visits preachers grasping book of myths 
to steal the polished masks of pride they wear, 
Zachariah recalls weird voice of Yah 
that vibrates through our bodies as tense songs. 

When airplanes crash in twin towers of wealth 
as thunderbolts Yah hurls to bring down pride, 
Fate wakes our spirits from dream of world peace 
and tells us we must understand true love, 
so Kwan Yin and Zachariah hold hands 
then fly as angels in the sun-bright sky. 

When random tornado of social change 
erases his farm from river vale of hope, 
and deconstructs the family home he built 
from memories of their struggles to survive, 
Zachariah dives in the shallow pool, 
then emerges when war storm dissipates. 

When Kwan Yin strolls along the boulevard, 
giving peaches to every passerby 
with gentle blessing of her generous love, 
Pluto blocks her way, envious of her grace, 
then stabs her in the heart with jealous rage, 
so she kisses Zachariah as she dies. 

When he removes persona mask of strength 
to breathe ethereal wisdom of fruit trees, 
while Kwan Yin paints new vision of world peace 
as portraits displayed in Museum of Fate, 
Zachariah rides white horse of concern 
to bring justice to victims of abuse. 

When he strums guitar by the Tree of Life, 
and sings about knowledge gods make us buy 
with suffering our bodies must endure, 
Zachariah sings that the Spark of God 
glows bright in heart of every conscious soul 
who ever lives in all the universe. 

Rapt By Psychic Light

Rapt By Psychic Light
© Surazeus
2026 09 10

Rapt by psychic light of our spinning Earth,  
I dream forever sorrow of mankind 
awake in darkness of the silent moon 
who always seems to know just how I feel 
when I project my spirit at her mask 
which I wear to play angel of high noon. 

Though we build safe illusions of our faith 
from bones of devils we defeat with love 
in homes that play as temples of our tales, 
time crushes all our dreams to swirls of dust 
when angels bomb our hopes with selfish greed 
while I am rapt by psychic light of fate. 

Though air I breathe from ancient wind of hope 
appears to animate with intense love 
my fragile body made of flesh on bones, 
my mind is rapt by psychic light of fear 
that motivates my quest to transcend rage, 
and map Hell with courage of Zephyrus. 

Stuck on the beach of soul-tormenting wind, 
where Ovidius records our tragedies, 
I gaze at oceans sloshing mountain slopes, 
heart rapt by psychic light of comedy, 
when Odysseus gives me used bag of wind 
which bold Aeolus gave him with sly wink. 

While I collect cracked skulls of long-dead gods 
from cave of illusions with diamond eyes, 
rapt by psychic light of national pride, 
I find Endymion sleeping in moonlight 
on rock of faith that Lucifer will use 
as cornerstone for new religious creed. 

Before the burning bush of wounded hearts, 
rapt by psychic light of angels with swords, 
I breastfeed daughter of star-fallen god 
whose laughter conjures storms of social change 
that sweep away oppressive gangs of thieves 
which frees world lands for brave democracy. 

Through luminous drift of false memory, 
Zephyrus comes to garden of dead trees 
to spark their souls awake with warming wind 
so apples bloom from fractured tears of snow, 
but, when I call his name with haunted voice, 
he weeps, heart rapt by psychic light of death. 

Rapt by psychic light of eternal love 
that gleams with timeless Lamp of Liberty, 
I teach Endymion how to map the world 
so we can know where we are in the dark 
when we reach out our hands of honest faith, 
transformed by knowledge that we all will die. 

Ungod Of Ten Billion Eyes

Ungod Of Ten Billion Eyes
© Surazeus
2026 09 09

I wonder how to explain with calm faith 
to my ancestors awake in my mind, 
who prayed so fervently up to the sky, 
that there was no one up there in the stars 
strumming harps in crystal halls on the clouds, 
nor did Ungod do anything to help. 

I feel intensity of their hard faith 
as they knelt by the river of dark tears 
among the rustling leaves on starry nights 
and gazed up at the sky with fervent hope, 
while moonlight glowed bright in their faithful eyes, 
and prayed for help to overcome their fears. 

I see in startling vision of my heart 
their three billion faces glowing moon-white 
as they knelt scattered in ten thousand towns 
over six thousand years since Adam prayed 
with Eve for wisdom to comprehend truth 
and understand strange nature of our world. 

For so many long restless centuries, 
while Earth spun slowly among shining stars, 
my ancestors gazed up at the sky 
and asked the Faceless Spirit of all things 
for help deciding how they should behave, 
then chose to create and to not destroy. 

Though they asked Ungod of ten billion eyes, 
whose spirit they felt glowing everywhere, 
endless questions about how to live life, 
they always found the answer in their hearts 
through application of logical code 
when they analyzed effects of each cause. 

Sharing wisdom they learned from bitter loss 
in proverbs that explain how actions cause 
effects to flow in consequence of change, 
they set foundation for our social law 
condensed in statement all agree is good 
that we do what we will, if we harm none. 

Though my ancestors prayed hard to the sky, 
seeking wisdom from Spirit of the Light, 
they always found deep inside their own hearts 
clear answers for how to perform their role 
so our actions create good things to grow 
as we help each other survive this life. 

Though I know now no conscious God of light 
glows from all atoms spinning in the void, 
I exercise logical function of prayer 
to analyze each moment of my quest 
so I generate life with my soulmate 
in our children who live after our death. 

Wings Of Perpetual Respect

Wings Of Perpetual Respect
© Surazeus
2026 09 09

When my first home transforms into the crow 
which flies on wings of perpetual respect 
across the blind sea of forgotten dreams 
that my ancestors left in empty rooms, 
I model each new family home I build 
to mimic stage of home my mother crafts. 

Lured by illusion of the Promised Land, 
that shimmers on horizon of false fate, 
I sail forever over restless seas 
where eyeless demons of primal desire 
lurk in the darkness of my hungry heart 
to block my progress toward lost paradise. 

As Lonely Jester with new Holy Book, 
which I preach to blind people building homes 
on river shores from sea to shining sea, 
I erase grand idols of long-dead gods 
to clear space for newcomers to lush vales 
who must rebuild homes their fathers designed. 

Each time the crow-winged ghost of my first home 
lands by the singing river of true faith, 
I gather words as flowers from lush fields 
to prove this world of bitter suffering 
remains more beautiful because of death 
that limits our time on this spinning globe. 

Trapped by nostalgia for the mundane past, 
that each person remembers differently 
as their own situation comedy, 
I search for secret treasures of your hearts 
that gleam with private memories of pain 
transformed to pleasure by bleak hour of song. 

Though angels deconstruct my childhood home 
to measure limits of my learning goals, 
defined by scattered puzzle of weird truth 
which I assemble with blueprint of myth, 
I build expanding palace to contain 
ghost of every ancestor in my genes. 

Because my temporary soul of light 
animates Zero Body with my name, 
I tell each stranger I randomly meet 
my name is Hyacinthus, new sun god 
born from terrific hills of Nevertime, 
but they ask if I have apples to sell. 

Reborn as Lucifer from Cave of Doom, 
I bear long-lost Lamp of Diogenes 
to prove my duties secure our world state 
against decay of arrogance and greed 
corrupting my childhood home with despair, 
therefore I burn it down and walk away.