Vibes Of Social Harmony © Surazeus 2026 10 02 Trapped by avalanche of identities which narrate riddles of anxiety, Zemyna describes elements of life as wheat that sprouts as her long curly hair in meadows lush with flowers of her breasts, while she holds crystal sphere of flashing stars. We celebrate Earth Mother of our hearts because her love sustains life of our souls, then takes our bodies back into her soil so we are ghosts in great lakes of her eyes who dance in birch groves with attentive grace till we lie down at death in her embrace. When I hear weird spell Mother of Graves chants, that echoes softly in moon-haunted woods, I play water tunes on flute of my heart to radiate vibes of social harmony that soothe brittle anger of wounded hearts till we attend grand feast Zemyna hosts. Even while I walk crowded business maze, conducting business of product exchange within parameters of strict contracts, I hear enchanting voice in blustering wind when Mother of Ghosts addresses my soul with fate-unspooling hex of fertile faith. Advanced to messy edges of our lives, I bind with oath of honest privilege new secret purpose of the glowing cloud, based on abundant wealth of bankruptcy, to revive heritage through instruments of fiscal gravity attracting ghosts. By teaching me how to interpret rain as splatter of inflated integers that model ordinance of future states, Zemyna arms my atmospheric mind with orchestrated process of respect so I could certify demonic faith. Attuned to misdirecting equity, depicted by strange cultural entities, contrived by deviant currencies of hope, Zemyna reprograms dream gallery with ardent frequencies of mental force, so I accept my role as guardian. Attending marathon of humble spies, who rewrite rules of dire linguistic tricks, Zemyna teaches me with anecdotes how to locate the liberal positive based on marketing techniques of bold faith, so we survive their avalanche of lies.
Friday, October 2, 2026
Vibes Of Social Harmony
Ocean Waves Of Thought
Ocean Waves Of Thought © Surazeus 2026 10 02 I want to talk to you about the rain is if broad wings of angels could erase conceptual bitterness of twisted pain that we accept as normal for the face that shields our souls against psychotic fame, tricked by the king of clowns to play his game. With ache of longing to taste juicy fruit while stuck in deep lake of demonic tears, I reach my hand to grasp the bitter loot that blinds my eyes to arrogate false fears while haughty Tantalus laughs at my plight because my agony is rendered trite. Startled awake from dream of writhing snakes, Selene sees her daughter Herse leap at flash of lightning that shatters soul lakes with sudden laughter that all life is cheap, so Hermes swoops down to embrace the girl whose honest hex hurls him in ocean swirl. Old pastor gripping Bible to his chest demands I tell important anecdotes which relate need for boys to go on quest exploring secret to construct sea boats on which we sail to conquer paradise with certain shock that we must pay the price. I want to hold sweet Thetis in my arms because our son is destined to perform great deeds of valor on skull-cluttered farms where Hera makes love with the God of Storm, but she prefers the humble man who knows how to tame horses when the full moon glows. Enraged that I can never obtain wealth, I smash old idol of Hermes in grief which scatters gold coins with obnoxious stealth, so I buy friendships that prove to be brief which leads me to knock at steel gates of Hell that shake at shocking mockery of the bell. Knee deep in sloshing waves of solitude, I wade into cold ocean waves of thought to swim with mermaids whose sweet songs are rude because they insult the divine robot who tries to conquer nations of the Earth without understanding what faith is worth. With calm compassion for the wounded soul, I roll Rock of Salvation up the hill to build enormous palace without goal through firm intention to ignore the bill, till I find fractured skull of Sisyphus that vibrates with contempt of bitterness.
Unclock Chance Of Fate
Unclock Chance Of Fate © Surazeus 2026 10 02 Aside from how fast stars always explode into light fairies with gossamer wings who bring bottles of root beer to blind clowns, Gearthe considers why white horses laugh at the wild-haired king chasing the giraffe, because she wants to paint portraits of ghosts. As if respectful turbulence of planes reveals how deep the psychic manhole goes for devils to hide from raven disease, Gearthe scatters pumpkin seeds on sidewalks while asking glass-shelled tortoise of dark faith how long it takes for alphabets to grow. Since no more than seven ages of man show our regressive pattern of regret by disobedience to laws of Glow Clouds, Gearthe advertises her expertise for extracting souls from god-twisting books to rescue children from the war machine. Though no one knows when the last god will die from embarrassment of drowning in tears that humans shed from constant suffering, Gearthe walks one hundred thousand miles to find the new-born angel with nine eyes who is destined to work as a janitor. If Death considers what the stop sign means that stands forever at crossroads of fate till Jesus cheats Krishna at game of cards, Gearthe will give away to bitter monks all the most famous paintings about queens who were forced to marry privileged thieves. Backward up Stairway to Heaven at dawn with random plan to unclock chance of fate at crack of gears in broken time machines, Gearthe gazes through swirling fog of time to navigate valley of singing skulls because the future is one step beyond. Yet when three prophets of the global bank distract attention of the humble folk through lamentation at the death of God, Gearthe holds flowers by the faceless pool, then asks shy Narcissus to marry her while echoing his religious beliefs. Till seeds expand into towers of steel that frame glass spirits of unusual faith based on undulations of interest rates, Gearthe decides not to proceed with plan to purchase glass castle from Jupiter till he admits his conceptual mistake.
Surf The Waves Of Change
Surf The Waves Of Change © Surazeus 2026 10 02 When tyrants take control of government, appointing thieves to higher offices, and funnel dollars of our hard-earned tax from programs that support the common folk to coffers of their private bank accounts, all we can do is surf the waves of change. When humble lawmen from the government ride into small towns on the wild frontier to challenge barons who own all the land, and integrate them in the empire state that trains sons of farmers as banking clerks, all we can do is surf the waves of change. When Midas, Nebuchadnezzar, and Lear imprison angels from Elysium to extract minerals from the mines of Hell, and build tanks and airplanes with bombs of hate to fight over who controls the most land, all we can do is surf the waves of change. When oligarchs of high-tech companies design artificial intelligence to perform functions of analysis that disemploys millions of programmers who fight video wargames in cyberspace, all we can do is surf the waves of change. When farmers attending church on Sundays no longer receive fiscal subsidies, while brave migrant workers from southern lands are deported to towns run by drug lords so no one is left to harvest their crops, all we can do is surf the waves of change. When prophets disguised as cartographers rename the ancient lands of everywhere to realign conceptual state of mind that conjures virtual model of the Earth so we navigate tides of history, all we can do is surf the waves of change. When democratic republic of hope, which we built strong on noble principle that every person born across this land has inalienable right to liberty, collapses under greed of oligarchs, all we can do is surf the waves of change. When Gothinius, descended from two gods, Jesus and Odin, through Holy Grail bloodline of Faramundus, and Frank Queen Argotta, unites the warring nations of Europe in unified state of Gothinia, all we can do is surf the waves of change.
Thursday, October 1, 2026
Lost On Ghostless Moors
Lost On Ghostless Moors © Surazeus 2026 10 01 By stretching my mind across centuries to wind my heart with frantic memories my soul becomes the boundless sky of doors through which I wander lost on ghostless moors to gather blossoms from the playful breeze so I forge trauma into psychic keys. Because I am calm enemy of hate, tricked to play happy by swindle of fate, I am uninterested in fraught game of who suffers most to achieve false fame, so I transcend stark agony of pain by floating wingless in electric rain. If I cast hex of calibrated spells through inefficient laughter of church bells, I may revive my equestrian heart long enough to check fortune-twisting chart against status of episcopal faith, fabricated through lust of the Star Wraith. Since I may inherit Book of Weird Lies, composed by children of dynamic spies, I may attempt to grow angelic wings through spiral sparkle of demonic rings that proves my soul is native to this land as frightened rebel of divine command. Concealed by silence of old broken truth, designed by ravens acting out of ruth, I analyze consequence of my deed, then adjudicate fault through mental need to exercise free will within constraints applied by nature to create more saints. Through ballads, strictly coded to express moral values that conjure happiness, I document events of this wild age, performed by sly mortals on global stage, depicting tragic passions of blind gods whose arrogance transforms them into toads. Across the waste land of eccentric rules children wander nowhere past fractured schools to learn of freedom for the wounded soul who studies secrets of the flashing whole so they can sell anger in holy books because temple priests are restaurant cooks. With tale-tattered quill, from my crippled wing, I chronicle our age of suffering by giving voice to the marginalized who storm Heaven though they are unbaptized, then compile ten billion stories with runes that dissipate into soul-haunting tunes.
God My Brain Invents
God My Brain Invents © Surazeus 2026 10 01 When dawn sun gleams red over apple creek, piercing my heart with agony of love, I fool myself one hour of glowing thoughts that I am one with some vast cosmic mind, and not alone and small on giant globe that slowly spins in void of nothingness. How comforting to think that cosmic mind, beaming from hills and clouds with warming love, observes my being with soul-nurturing care, empathizing with strange feelings I feel, and would protect my frail body from harm while teaching me to see nature of things. This hope for huge protective soul of love that gleams as ghost in sun-refracting clouds, I wonder if my mind derives its sense from memories my ancestors reviewed because they all experienced sweet care their living parents performed in each life. My mind projects care of this cosmic mind based on experience of each new life from memories of their childhood that transfer brain to brain on dream-weaving strings of genes which feed complex glow of my conscious mind so I expect care from ghost of this world. No parental spirit, bodied in flesh, hovers over me with cherubic wings to shield my frail embodied soul from harm, so my mind projects as ghost of their care incorporeal being in God my brain invents that shimmers as illusion of my faith. If I were not projecting ghost of care as ideal god that presents in thought absent parent my programmed brain expects, I would begin to tremble with stark fear that sharp-toothed monsters of death lurking near may attack and destroy my tender soul. Thus with fake confidence of specious faith I strut landscape of terror to account for secret treasures I extract from death as fruit which I consume to sustain life that flushes with tense strength of ardent pride transient self which I navigate with care. Now stuck with ghost of God my brain invents, programmed by psychic memories of hope that my ancestors conjured from stark fear to navigate through gangs of hostile men, which helped them survive to generate life, I protect and guide my children with care.
Pool Of Her Luminous Heart
Pool Of Her Luminous Heart © Surazeus 2026 10 01 While angels and devils fight in the sky as lightning flashes in swirling black clouds, I wander along crumbling asphalt road far out in the desolate countryside to the abandoned mansion of gray wood where faceless ghosts float in one thousand rooms. Before rotten stump of the ancient tree, that once sheltered children with joyful eyes who played games on long summer afternoons, I kneel and touch small sprout of tender leaves that struggles to grow from its legacy and bloom with apple rubies of true faith. When I touch roots with anguish of regret, that radiates from despair of wounded hearts since people I love were slaughtered in war, passionate beam of psychic energy spirals through expanding scope of consciousness which manifests in tree of global faith. Celestial goddess robed in tattered pain vibrates with spark of cosmic synergy that spirals from pool of her luminous heart so she creates our spinning world of souls to pulse in ocean of atomic waves, then sings while drenched in golden seeds of faith. Emerging from weird visions at gray dawn, I ponder meaning of that vague word, Faith, which weak men, trapped by duty to succeed, wield as weapon of spiritual control, so I gaze at old crumbling house of hope that creaks in wind of innocent desire. How fiercely I longed to escape this house and live with passion in city of lights, but vampires cloaked in dapper suits of wealth, instead of humble knights with crafting tools, became obsessed with beauty of my face and sucked bright spirit of my naive heart. Instead of Penelope waiting at home for Odysseus to return to warm hearth, I am Medusa searching for true love, for I have left behind gods turned to stone as tragic lessons no one cares to learn, yet hope to find Perseus waiting for me. Wrapping her long tangled hair in firm bun, Mary unlocks door of her family home, cleans every room with broom and mop of faith, then sits in leather armchair by the hearth to sip hot chocolate and watch snowflakes flash in timeless light of the gold Full Moon.
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