Luminous Phantom Of Faith

Luminous Phantom Of Faith
© Surazeus
2026 09 02

I keep the secret of love in my heart 
though it swells and bleeds into apple seeds 
that I scatter along the muddy road 
while ducking under sorrow-laden boughs 
to savor succulent sanguinity 
too quickly lost in subtle jubilance. 

Excessive laughter of sorrow-winged joy 
teaches me about the impossible, 
yet I never hesitate to reach out 
with eagerness to exchange what we make 
with what we need in weird commercial game 
that functions to keep us busy till death. 

Because she understands language of waves 
Sycorax knows how to use the dream code 
of happiness to tame the Jormungander 
in giving her rides to the Promised Land 
where she paints murals of the multiverse 
on temple walls before the Feast of Friends. 

So when she finds corpse of the gray-haired poet 
rotting among the golden daffodils, 
Sycorax extracts his brain from his skull 
so she can study the Realm of Ideas 
that conjures visions of the Natural World 
as matrix that powers our battery hearts. 

Staring at computer screen for eighth hours, 
Sycorax imagines with fervent calm 
the Great American Novel she writes 
with blood of angels on the locked church door 
where her son lies in the coffin of glass 
since he died in the motorcycle crash. 

We feast on terror of fake happiness, 
Sycorax explains to the green giraffe 
on which she rides into Jerusalem 
as new messiah for the modern age 
to found one world religion of new faith 
that unites all nations in dance of ghosts. 

Driving cross-country in old white sedan 
to start her new job at Wonderland Park, 
Sycorax sings hymns of shy Emily 
whose face is luminous phantom of faith 
that guides her to the future of success 
not even God can see written in sand. 

When she arrives at destined hill of bones, 
where angels disguised as children with masks 
dance among flowers of discarded thoughts, 
Sycorax holds fractured skull of Wordsworth 
till she comprehends spirit of his verse 
that programs atheist wisdom from the curse. 

Always Friends With Ghosts

Always Friends With Ghosts
© Surazeus
2026 09 02

Because she will be always friends with ghosts 
by crossing bridge of angels before dark, 
she feeds swans of the past with anecdotes 
designed as proverbs in the holy book 
to guide lost people to the garden brook 
where they make new faces from broken boats. 

With laughter from cracked stones of hungry ghosts 
she opens pages that flap frantic wings 
which teach young children how to invent words 
they need to prove their minds are worth the light 
that blooms from lilacs in the cluttered yard 
where faceless angels carve their names in bones. 

If she decides her specialty is joy, 
that springs from shifting wells of raven blood, 
she may bring flowers to the funeral 
held for the old man no one seems to know 
who liked to build boats from demonic bones 
as if dew on our eyes may cleanse the heart. 

Her river glazed with light of centuries, 
she tells us how this world is wondrous weird 
so we exchange phone numbers by the lake, 
but lose touch with the ones we want to know 
by walking signless road beyond the wall 
that traps our bodies in false paradise. 

Still half awake three hours before red dawn, 
she stares with wonder at true nothingness 
with plan to give unspoken words away 
because they sprout their own butterfly wings 
and leave her stranded in the doorless room 
despite the way she earns her right to live. 

When fifteen women in the church at noon 
discuss how she reveals her writhing heart 
with anguish for brave seekers of the sea, 
she blesses tables heaped with empty plates 
while stealing apples from the box of lies 
from which flow sorrows of the hungry world. 

So when the last book still unwritten screams, 
she scatters lost words on the cracked sidewalk, 
then opens glass door to the multiverse 
where humble god of impotence designs 
strange paradigm for the whole world to use 
when framing thoughts with ancient languages. 

Yet she extracts from laughing radios 
completed puzzles that depict lost homes 
where families feast on zombie heart of faith 
to prove our right to live free from despair 
based on our friendship with the nameless ghosts 
who glow in television screens of hope. 

First Mother Wraith

First Mother Wraith
© Surazeus
2026 09 02

If we once gathered in September chill 
in stone huts set inside mist-shrouded hill 
to roast lamb on bright crackling flames of hope 
while children play chase on vine-tangled slope, 
then we may cherish memories of those years 
in distant lands with nothing but cold tears. 

Great glen that splits our land with shining lake 
conceals sweet memories we long to take 
when we sail wood ships over storm-wracked sea 
to build new garden in Land of the Free 
since men with guns drive us into dark gloom 
that shrouds our hearts with curse of bitter doom. 

Winds toss our frail ship on huge mindless waves 
which hurl us from wrecked ships to bone-filled caves 
where Death inspires our hearts with brave respect 
to seek weird truth in jewels eyes inspect 
with flash that guides us to the Promised Land 
where we build new empire with honest hand. 

When each new child is born from womb of fate 
I stand with cloth of cheese beside the gate 
as gift for hungry worker passing by 
whose grace will bless our child with star-clear eye 
to spread good fortune from my aching heart 
when I map Heaven on our history chart. 

From treeless glens where purple thistles thrive 
we journey through dark wilderness with drive 
for freedom far from gangs of castle thieves, 
yet linger lost in mountain vales where leaves 
still whisper names of souls we bury here 
among gold flowers by the glistening mere. 

Two hundred years swirl by in flashing clouds 
that soon erase all tales of ancient gods, 
so I wake in new world of phones and cars 
which reprograms constellations of stars 
till Scotia beams from visions of my dream 
whose face I see in shimmer of the stream. 

While strolling along moon-lit creek of faith, 
I see emerge from mist First Mother Wraith 
who guides my heart in lush Seattle woods 
and gives me symbols of ancestral goods 
so I see Scotland mirrored in landscape 
that molds old spirit in my mortal shape. 

Though hills of Scotland, shining in green rain, 
call me to fly home on quick wings of gain, 
I linger in lush Appalachian vales 
to play guitar and recite timeless tales 
depicting noble spirit of mankind 
that drives our hearts with love star god designed. 

Dreamless Lake Of Untime

Dreamless Lake Of Untime
© Surazeus
2026 09 01

Greta walks in dire laughter of untime 
to become mother of the trembling house 
where Walt and Wendell in the forest sing 
to wake soul of Kentucky from dark mud 
which spirals from strange beauty of her eyes 
because her face masks the infinite skies. 

Barefoot in the forest of singing ghosts, 
Greta writes verses of sorrowful hope 
with ants in cursive of electric clouds 
though she tries not to cry with ache of loss 
by telling no one how she misses them 
though they linger in window of untime. 

Rising huge from dreamless lake of untime 
because she carries darkness in her heart, 
Greta fears no monster that haunts the world 
when she is pregnant with honest despair 
whose soul absorbs her melancholy hope 
that cuts her eyes with undigested milk. 

Beyond extremity of lightless faith 
through swirling portal of unspoken words, 
Greta floats above the world-city maze 
where people see her spirit mask glow clear 
as whatever god they worship at home 
composed from our empty rooms of untime. 

Wandering in jagged mountains of untime, 
Greta maps secret valleys with deep caves 
that comprise land of Catalonia 
to find old monastery on steep hill 
where shy Minerva bathes in sparkling pool 
while suckling Phoebus at her breast with love. 

Born from the sacred womb of mindless Earth, 
brave Greta bears new-born son in her arms 
while walking rugged road of refugees 
to find secret garden of apple trees 
where clever Serpentus, with star-gold eyes, 
waits for his wife with passion of untime. 

Trapped in the television of untime 
with ghosts of actors from the Underworld, 
Greta hurries through film studio lots 
as shadow on the stage of every show 
to find Serpentus wearing business suit 
who edits scenes in one grand narrative. 

Shocked by the rise of fascist tyranny 
that threatens world liberal democracy, 
Greta raises high flag of Liberty 
and leads our brave toil for equality 
since fight for right overcomes fight for might 
in still unfolding story of untime. 

Death Remembers Our Ways

Death Remembers Our Ways
© Surazeus
2026 09 01

Whether or not death remembers our ways 
for treating plants and animals of Earth 
seems irrelevant to spooling of time 
which tangles karmic consequence of deeds 
that hungry souls perform in desperate bid 
to survive aggressive gusting of change. 

Despair for the world releases my mind 
from waking anguish of unspooling time, 
yet still I wander among humming trees 
to hear their opinions about respect 
which deceive my eyes of attentive hope 
with the peace of the wild things I can feel. 

While in the presence of clear water, I 
invent connections between twinkling stars 
to channel their light in my pulsing brain 
as omens that reveal how I should act 
to preserve grace of the world with my faith 
that means nothing to the recurring rain. 

Foolishly confident that I am free 
from imagined grace Earth bestows on me, 
I walk the signless road of everywhere 
and ask the faceless people I may meet 
if they can hear ancient song of the land, 
but they keep driving their chariot of fire. 

Though the complex wholeness of our weird world 
remains beyond the knowing of our minds, 
I follow clockwork of daily routines 
without explanation for life or death 
that recycles atoms of my frail body, 
assembled from dreams of discarded tales. 

So I continue to pretend I am real 
as flash of light on water of the lake 
that frames the fantasy of give and take 
programmed as institute of money games 
when we invest in new productive work 
expanding market of spiritual faith. 

Urged by adrenalin to transcend death, 
I hunt demonic monster of my fear 
in drive programmed by ancestral success 
to wrestle hunger that devours my heart 
till I transform from angel into human 
when I build Eden in the wilderness. 

Every god preserved in religious myth 
was once some mortal human with fierce mind 
whose deeds of victory against hungry death 
inspire our hearts to endure suffering 
so we too may become immortal souls 
preserved in tales long after we are dead. 

New Queen Of Liberty

New Queen Of Liberty
© Surazeus
2026 09 01

Hair red as dawn sunlight on treeless hill, 
Celta closes her eyes against gray gloom 
and whispers through rose-petal lips wyrd spell 
that conjures urgent vision of the stream 
swirling around her pale legs in moon rings 
dire wisdom of ravens on star-black wings. 

Curling slender fingers of freckled hands 
to spool kinetic flash of energy 
in taut dynamic coil of spiral bands, 
Celta chants pulsing words of empathy 
that shields her wounded heart with firm resolve 
to search for love where time-blind angels delve. 

Frail spirit inside ruins of stone walls, 
where her grandmother reigned as jeweled queen 
in grand castle destroyed by cannon balls, 
Celta strains attentive core of her mind 
to hear and comprehend fear-puzzled thoughts 
her ancestors hid in wave-battered boats. 

Entranced by inner beauty of her soul 
that emanates through gray glow of her eyes, 
Corbin emerges from sea-fetid swirl 
and offers red apple from dreamless maze, 
so Celta consumes sweet tears of the sun 
while pacing round stones of the weedy lawn. 

While Corbin kisses her with tender care 
and whispers oath to guard her sacred soul, 
Petrus entraps her with his greedy glare 
to proclaim she will perform regal role 
as bride of his hearth, then orders his men 
to arrest Corbin with strong legal chain. 

Caged in grand court hall of the greedy king, 
Corbin watches wedding of his Rose Queen, 
heart aching when Celta wears diamond ring, 
whose eyes gleam when she drinks gold grail of wine, 
then ascends stairs with him to tower room 
where she will execute his fateful doom. 

When Celta returns with white hands stained red, 
holding severed head of the tyrant high, 
the people cheer and celebrate her deed, 
proclaiming her new Queen of Liberty, 
then free Corbin who gives her jeweled crown 
that glitters when she reigns in blood-stained gown. 

Though Petrus destroyed castle of her home 
and controlled fertile land of her lost clan, 
Celta restores her state with Spell of Doom 
to rule her people with generous hand, 
assisted by brave Raven of her Heart, 
who protects her through code of their star chart.