Urgent Game Of Badinage

Urgent Game Of Badinage
© Surazeus
2026 03 02

Through apricity of my elder years, 
enchanted by sweet petrichor of dawn, 
I savor clinomania of my heart, 
yet dare no more perendinate my quest 
from brave intention to peregrinate 
with tarantism of ephemeral joy. 

Another day in land of Zathamar 
provides new opportunities to grow, 
so I rise up from comfort of my bed 
to walk in dream land of my throbbing head 
and build expanding castle from blue snow 
that gleams with sacred light of the First Star. 

Abacinated by dream of strange truth 
that twists my heart with maliferous hope, 
I ride tantivy over rugged hills 
to measure love with geomantic tools 
by drinking from the sparkling winterbourne 
that meanders with lacertilian grace. 

Diffluent time of arbitrary gears, 
contrived with urgent game of badinage, 
saginates my sabelline heart with pride, 
so I progress through life with uberty 
to hyalograph events of great import, 
preserved through raucous rubricality. 

Proud of my honest rurigenous ways, 
using eromancy to fix my soul, 
I preach weird anecdotes of human fate 
to nubilate the obvious facts of love, 
derived from codex of kalology 
because I apricate my weary heart. 

Protected by my arborescent heart, 
I express feelings with torrentine verse 
through cluttered anguish of tautophony 
to perform role of facinorous clown 
with brave abduracy of mute contempt, 
yet prefer to obambulate through Hell. 

Concealed by grim torfaceous attitude, 
I focus on bibliogenesis 
to maintain state of burgensic respair, 
revived from fear with mentation of dreams, 
because through morphallaxis I transcend 
morient process of the errant seer. 

Convinced I will hear astral voice of God 
through austromancy of unspoken thoughts, 
I write my quest with aurigraphic code 
to warrantize my frame of reference 
through secret cabotage of treasure chests 
since I cherish caducity of faith. 

On Prairies Of Zathamar

On Prairies Of Zathamar
© Surazeus
2026 03 02

Since no one watches television show 
of my life, I do whatever I want 
if I harm none, for I value with care 
special beauty of each frail human life 
that shimmers with the mindless glow of atoms 
woven in briefly conscious brain of hope. 

My brain invents stories for people I see 
walking past the window beside my desk 
where I work in the Water Business Office, 
mapping water and sewer system pipes 
that cycle through every building in town 
with water-words I hear blind angels sing. 

When I peel off mask of America, 
composed of steel towers and asphalt roads, 
I perceive timeless land of Zathamar, 
plains teeming with dinosaurs, buffaloes, 
horses, and humans hunting them with spears, 
then businessmen driving cars to oil wells. 

I find bleached skeletons of my ancestors 
buried in graves from sea to shining sea 
along the signless roads of immigrants 
forever searching for the Promised Land 
somewhere over the horizon of hope 
where gangs are not driving them from their homes. 

Arising from bright dust of Mother Earth, 
Smohalla carries Dream Rock in his heart 
and shouts from the mountain of dancing trees, 
"My people shall never work with lust for wealth 
because they will find wisdom in their dreams 
when their spirits rise from flames of respect." 

We gather on prairies of Zathamar 
where no ring of stones has ever been built 
to pitch our tents beside the Stream of Souls 
and share songs of our sorrows with the wind 
that rise as smoke from fires of hungry hearts 
which weaves clouds into tapestry of truth. 

We ask each other with serious concern, 
what is the nature of America, 
that marble hall where idols of dead gods 
proclaim glory of expanding empire, 
though vines break down divisive walls of faith 
so we walk together on broken roads. 

Our stories map vast land of Zathamar 
that details complicated maze of myths 
where river of all time orchestrates 
fruit trees of Eden from bleak parking lots 
where Yemaya erases boundaries 
with nurturing rain of our hopeful hearts. 

Weird Chameleon Name

Weird Chameleon Name
© Surazeus
2026 03 01

Around to the beginning of the game 
children of angels fallen from bright clouds 
give each other weird chameleon name 
that drapes their soul in derivative shrouds 
to veil aggressive demon of the soul 
which we subsume to play our social role. 

Born to play estimator of true faith, 
measured by extravagant flash of words, 
I wear mask of Phoebus to hide dream wraith 
who emulates fraternal code of birds 
insolvent with parameters we grade, 
qualified to disrupt the masquerade. 

Coerced by fear to play the activist, 
engaged in contest to prove human rights 
are crucial to reign of the archivist, 
I must acknowledge avatar of lights 
who teaches us with pride to advocate 
for people doomed to suffer by blind fate. 

Essential focus of fantastic truth, 
familiar to the wounded refugees 
who seek salvation from messiah sleuth, 
presents forensic process of glass keys 
that issue fusion of magnetic thoughts 
installed by mocking laughter of robots. 

Antique concept of fortunate technique 
conceals terse vector of sharp resonance, 
disguised as royal person not unique 
enough to publish startled relevance 
because we gather revenue from stones 
that vibrate with electric rainbow tones. 

Each car mechanic at the seminar 
on trauma studies in novels of clowns 
proclaims their loyalty to Zathamar 
while recruiting jesters in country towns 
to oppose oppression of working men 
who convert the shovel to the dream pen. 

Subjective syntax of brave sentences, 
sealed by trademark of our attentive king, 
details strange keywords of his preferences 
for who should wear his lost Plutonian ring 
so he can learn to fly airplane of peace 
by selling mystery of his masterpiece. 

When the vampire god tries to suck our souls 
through mindless worship of fierce followers, 
Minerva recruits Phoebus to play roles 
of heroes who free trapped borrowers, 
but then we all grow old and weak with pain 
so our power trips dissipate in rain. 

Grim Peat-Bog Devil

Grim Peat-Bog Devil
© Surazeus
2026 03 01

When grim peat-bog devil with fox-red hair 
crawls from black clay-ensouled mud of the marsh, 
Seamus welcomes her with bottle of rum, 
drapes silk cloak over her shoulders with care, 
and leads her to lit auditorium 
where he plays jester to her regal queenship. 

Since I am neither god nor ghost at birth, 
I wander virtual city of your tales 
with jeweled eyes of understanding rage 
that see through masks the most powerful wear 
as they condemn outsiders from their club 
to slave in factories of clanking steel. 

Purring ghosts of love rise with burning blood 
from machinery of language that twists tongues 
with rogue substitutions of natural law 
when strong men fearful of obsessive death 
hunt to kill wanderers in misty woods 
who stumble and scream in anguish of hope. 

Heart hardened against cruelty of life, 
I snarl insults at monsters of despair, 
detained by performative callousness 
when I suppress compassion for frail life 
that struggles weakly against stronger force 
to evade degradation of the soul. 

Unversed in country matters of field life, 
I mold sunset glow into bricks of faith 
to build safe haven in dark tangled woods 
with chimney that channels smoke of our prayers 
to heaven where Faceless God of old tales 
ignores desperate hope for the Afterlife. 

Through fractured window of my wordless heart 
crows swoop on devil wings of honesty 
to bring purple-brain mushrooms from boglands 
which I eat soaked in honey of respect 
till I become coiled rainbow of brave angst 
howling with wild wolves in the twilight zone. 

Since we dwell in troubled ambivalence, 
uncommitted to mindless creeds of church, 
we explore uncanny landscape of ghouls 
wearing human faces that grin with lies, 
malnourished from harshness of eager hope 
which calculates effective cause to perform. 

If I am born from mind-controlling force 
and squirm squalling into hands of regret, 
first mother of gloom cries to feed me milk 
as prideful authority hurls my soul 
back into vast illegitimate sea 
where I morph into Mermaid Bride of Christ. 

Museum Of Idols That Cry

Museum Of Idols That Cry
© Surazeus
2026 03 01

Alive in drafty castle of my heart, 
I play both king and dragon of desire 
within the frame of fables liars built 
to credit those who provide them with food 
with miracles no human could perform 
till my white horse drowns in river of change. 

Eager to reclaim my inheritance, 
hidden near the River Gyndes by time, 
I leave behind this land of broken dreams 
which my ancestors invaded with greed, 
but everywhere I go in this world now 
new people live on my ancestral lands. 

When he plucks out my heart with hungry hope 
to find what syncopates our fertile love, 
he breaks its clock of passionate desire 
which cuts taut chord of our mutual song 
so now I cannot articulate well 
trust shattered by aggressive lust to own. 

Indestructible ship of my brave heart, 
shackled to the creaking dock of desire, 
wrenches at ropes of duty to assert 
right to sail pulsing waves of curious faith, 
but blinding passion for treasure regained 
traps my wingless soul in fake fairy tales. 

Bright flame that licks and fawns at mirror mind 
with merciless respect for wordless smiles, 
throws fish of my heart back in the wild sea, 
so I ascend Arctic mountains of hope 
to sell costumes for my outdated selves 
to faceless ghosts of famous movie stars. 

Sinuous orchids in gardens of skulls 
shelter refugees from exploding bombs 
who dream of clear water hiding pure gems, 
though I mail my book of forgotten lore 
to willow witch behind the theater 
whose bodiless owl understands my tricks. 

Yet pitchforked farmer in lush daisied field 
struggles through blackthorn thicket of concern 
to nine-pooled fen where swirling mist conceals 
wounded god who clutches turtle-shell lyre 
while declaring this vale of tears is his 
to build museum of idols that cry. 

I marvel at the brutal nonchalance 
of Mother Nature who creates our souls 
from tangled sunrays of hazardous hope 
with racketing flux of religious faith 
that taunts our fake heroes to prove themselves 
by ransacking libraries of dead gods. 

Brave Daughters Of Amen

Brave Daughters Of Amen
© Surazeus
2026 03 01

She always asks the blind man how to see 
true essence in each object she perceives, 
but he replies that death will set us free 
as sweet relief for every soul who grieves, 
so she measures strict bounds of time and space 
to name true features of the godless face. 

She always asks the mute man how to sing 
insightful lyric of the broken heart, 
but he attempts to fly on crippled wing 
beyond perimeters of the dream chart, 
so she carves runes on trunks of screaming trees 
then brews sweet mead from tears of honeybees. 

When she asks the crippled man how to fly 
above the endless maze of social myths, 
he teaches, good reporters must ask why 
the fairy queen once ruled from monoliths, 
so she films documentaries on ghosts 
of people murdered by the Lord of Hosts. 

When she asks the hungry man how to cook 
food for gods in ziggurat temple hall, 
he records human history in the book 
as word of God who hangs on marble wall, 
so she fries burgers at the small cafe 
near the factory where old widows pray. 

Though she asks the preacher for secret key 
to open door of wisdom locked by fear, 
he snarls, she cannot know the mystery 
because Jesus is the Mind Puppeteer, 
so she plays folk songs in the haunted church 
depicting the fool and his lonely search. 

Though she asks the jester for demon mask 
he wears while mocking dictators and kings, 
he assigns her the most difficult task 
of finding how Daedalus makes god wings, 
so she plays Zenobia on global stage 
to oppose Christian Nationalist rage. 

If she asks Mercury for turtle lyre 
to sing epic tale of heroes and fools, 
he hides how Helios designed the tire 
for his wagon filled with technical tools, 
so she frees humanity from despair 
when she rides the gold hot-air balloon chair. 

If she asks Apollo for his starship 
powered by crystal jewels with star eyes, 
he takes her on his transgalactic trip 
to populate every planet with spies, 
so she arrests the most powerful men 
who abuse brave daughters of Amen. 

Flexible Arc Of Clouds

Flexible Arc Of Clouds
© Surazeus
2026 02 28

The flexible arc of clouds in my heart 
describes the quickened beauty of true love 
when we first meet on fraught terrain of hope, 
then walk together with brave impetus 
toward far horizon of innocent fear 
by breathing completeness of the sky sphere. 

Our footsteps smite bold threshold of our hopes 
when we attempt to teleport through dreams 
without reproach of worship before death 
when bearing fragrant lamp of shrewdest pain 
across expansive arrogance of space 
because our souls were born with glittering face. 

Surprised by subtle facts of swarming words, 
we hide in shadow of the tall white pine 
that whispers ancient secrets of the wind 
alone with sparkle of Adirondack 
where scholars lounge in cabins of cold glass 
to study nature of electric mass. 

Far along path of marbled obstacles 
we transverse shattered beach of tangled truths 
with reckless passion for half-absent waves 
expressing honest shimmer we exchange 
for opaque expanse of the silver flame 
that highlights bitterness of global fame. 

Aroma of buttered toast lures our hearts 
to venture forth from haven of contempt 
and seek contrary treasure turtles tame 
with brute seduction of security 
we feel is unjust to the starving folk 
who seal their spirits in lost storybook. 

Mild satisfaction of escape from death 
diverts bereavement of the nameless friend 
who sells bone fragments of my shattered skull 
to lonely travelers for serpent eggs 
who listen for ringing of telephones 
on distant hill of bombed cathedral stones. 

Inflexible respect for righteous laws 
sparks promise that our empire may yet thrive 
if we should welcome every immigrant 
as equal citizen in troubled times 
who work with earnest loyalty for right 
to garnish wealth from spiral of the light. 

Withdrawal from intensive social games 
to stroll with casual fear in silent woods 
conspires to trick our introspective eyes 
with burning cycle of the solar ghost 
who teaches us to steer the ship of state 
with graceful wisdom through sharp rocks of fate. 

Code Of Our Zeitgeist

Code Of Our Zeitgeist
© Surazeus
2026 02 28

If unexpected laughter breaks the door 
white rabbit of wisdom will ask for more, 
but you request I play the fountain fool, 
so I hide in light to invent the tool 
fallen angels use to heal us with hope 
despite unspooling anguish of the rope. 

Yet someone strange lurks in evening shade, 
so I stand surprised where the book was laid 
three thousand years of people walking past 
till my eighth cousin asks the join the cast, 
so I draw the gun on theater stage 
to shoot the darkness of innocent rage. 

Startled by blast of the lost prairie train, 
I count every drop of the midnight rain 
where gray smoke curls from the haughty cigar 
so I erase my ghost from the speeding car 
before last bottle of liquor is drunk 
at flash of lightning in the stolen trunk. 

Regret defines my journey to the west 
with nothing but photos in the cracked chest 
so I stop in the small country town to ask 
old librarian to sell me her mask, 
but she serves honey-ginger tea instead 
and explains why her sweet daughter is dead. 

Though forty years flash by in sudden twist 
where I play role of the ventriloquist, 
I drive to the bank in Beverly Hills 
with no intention of paying my bills, 
because ancient willow witch knows my name 
since she it was who trapped me with world fame. 

Before the camera with elegant grace 
I play starship captain of outer space 
who saves her crew from demon of the world 
where enormous dragons of time lie curled, 
till Beowulf asks me to marry him 
so I adopt as pet his gold-eyed Grim. 

Beside the fountain of Neptune in Rome 
we talk about where to build our new home, 
while planes sent by kings in gray business suits 
bomb the museum where devils play flutes, 
so I stare at painting of Phoebus Christ 
who tries to program code of our zeitgeist. 

If long-expected marriage of true minds 
occurs in glass cathedral no one finds, 
I may ask Tiresias for a discount 
to purchase freedom with my bank account, 
but someone declares the old king is dead, 
so I eat fried egg on slice of rye bread. 

Dream World Of Success

Dream World Of Success
© Surazeus
2026 02 28

When I hear Sisyphus laugh with delight 
I know rolling stone of justice he hurls 
has smashed clay-foot idol of the Gold King 
whose tower collapses in house of cards 
because fascists always lose game of power 
by driving wise people out of the state. 

When I arrive on Sanzu River shore 
I stop before Bridge of Forgetfulness 
to decide which crossing I want to take 
on my way to the dream world of success 
where people worship idol of my soul 
long after I have vanished in the void. 

When Yama welcomes me with open heart 
to valley of Naraka veiled with mist, 
he gives me jeweled grail from skull of Zeus 
filled with nectar from Vaitarana Stream 
so I drink spirit of the Thirteen Worlds 
which cleanses my body of vain regret. 

When I climb trail cluttered with skulls of kings 
up wind-battered slopes of Mount Kailasha, 
I kneel before crystal Cave of Illusions 
where Shiva meditates on leopard skin 
and plays heart-enchanting tunes on jade flute 
while Parvati dances with divine grace. 

Each atom that composes Frame of Self 
was sparked by first flash of creative love 
that spiraled into galaxies of worlds 
nurtured by wisdom of Solaria 
who weaves neural net of our dreaming brains 
from beams of light that fuel our pulsing cells. 

Each atom in my body at this hour 
was part of various material objects 
through fourteen billion years of evolution, 
soil and rain transmutated by roots of trees 
to fruit we eat while singing by the lake, 
which transform to immortal soul of genes. 

Each atom has cycled through countless bodies 
as material substance that glows with life 
as we evolve generations of souls, 
dirt to grass to wheat or cow we consume, 
then back to dirt in cycle of rebirth, 
so we dance laughing in the evening rain. 

When I climb ruined Ziggurat of Ur 
where Ishtar designed rituals of religion, 
I hear her ancient voice still ringing clear 
as she sang enchanting Dream of Creation 
that still programs how my brain perceives life, 
for she lives in every human on Earth. 

Weird Voice That Hums

Weird Voice That Hums
© Surazeus
2026 02 28

Shocked by weird voice that hums within my brain 
with eerie echoes of uncanny thoughts, 
I open eyes of ancient memories 
with clear intention of terrified hope 
to comprehend strange shapes my mind perceives 
that pulse with intense passion of desire. 

Inspired by vibrant contours of the world 
which undulate with secret waves of faith, 
I mold thick river clay with eager hands 
in vase depicting dance of souls in rain 
that bears juice of ripe fruit from Tree of Life 
we drink to celebrate rebirth of light. 

Attuned by strange vibrations of the ground 
that quaver soft with tremors of concern, 
I translate song of wind in dancing trees 
to frantic prophecy of urgent hope 
based on blurred observation of events 
that swirl around me in the cityscape. 

Focused on frail faces of human beings 
who perform roles in our communal game, 
I dramatize story of conscious life 
in never-ending fairy tale of hope 
that fuels our transformation as we grow 
through intricate ballet of give and take. 

Amused by carefree play of conscious souls 
who stretch their arms to touch eternal light, 
I write tales of our lives in river mud 
recording names of every soul alive 
till they fly away on wings of desire 
as we ascend to cloud world of our dreams. 

Intrigued by complex web of singing stones 
that form foundation of our spinning globe, 
I trace how water flows in streams of light 
to weave vast tangled net of thirsty roots 
that sprout as trees and herbs in glowing fields 
where people gather fruit from heart of time. 

Enthused by divine spirit of our world 
that glows from body of each human brain, 
I breathe ethereal spirit of the sky 
then sing encoded name of every soul 
who blooms in words from silent stones of Earth 
to harmonize in global choir of hope. 

Charmed by weird voice that hums within my brain 
with puzzling concepts of spiritual tropes, 
I speak with darkness of the universe 
who wakes as gleam of light that I am now 
so I glow briefly with pleasure of being 
then flicker out for all eternity. 

We Create Our Fate

We Create Our Fate
© Surazeus
2026 02 26

We create our fate with each choice we make 
by weaving silver threads of cosmic light 
in holy scripture of clandestine creed 
because we map our virtual world of dreams 
by walking toward bright treasure of the heart 
that lures us lost in endless maze of myths. 

We create our fate with each choice we make 
by telling stories from false memories 
we feel are real as kite on twanging string 
that dances in cold mountain wind of hope 
so we can see our place in vale of tears 
where angels struggle trapped in vines of faith. 

We create our fate with each choice we make 
by walking far across waste land of snow 
with shadow of fourth person by our side 
whose face we cannot see in gleaming light 
that fractures mirror mind of our world view 
when we kneel laughing by the pool of eyes. 

We create our fate with each choice we make 
by naming every stranger on the street 
who hurries past in gust of howling wind 
because blind death still waits for every soul 
despite blind faith we place in God above 
whose silence drenches us in mocking rain. 

We create our fate with each choice we make 
by sculpting spirit straight from flash of bombs 
that disassemble economic gains 
contained in stringent formulas of greed 
contrived with capital to fund success 
for building idols of our vampire god. 

We create our fate with each choice we make 
by stumbling drunk on threshold of world change 
through frantic oscillation between poles 
of fierce opposing camps of hostile clowns 
who battle over whose god is more real 
till Earth is soaked in blood of honest faith. 

We create our fate with each choice we make 
by prancing on bright stage of global fame 
to perform role as savior of the world 
who leads brave revolution of the lost 
against cruel oligarchs in towers of gold 
who sail yachts as we slave in factories. 

We create our fate with each choice we make 
by photographing scenes of civil war 
between conflicting ideologies 
that shatter mirror of democracy 
so we assemble puzzle of weird truth 
from Osiris, our new messiah sleuth. 

Swirling In Story

Swirling In Story
© Surazeus
2026 02 26

We are the song of the rain in the trees 
as we pass on with slow dance of the breeze. 
We rise at our birth from dream of the seas 
and float down river of life at our ease. 
We are the cycle of rain in the sky, 
swirling in story of the cosmic eye. 

We are the transient shimmer of the moon 
that appears on Earth and is gone too soon. 
We feel the mountain humming its wild tune 
when the sun grants our heart its secret boon. 
We are the sorrow of grass on the plain, 
swirling in story of suffering pain. 

We are the lope of our goal-driven gait 
as we blaze the road of our chosen fate. 
We pulse with hope for truth to navigate 
landscape of wisdom we investigate. 
We are the laughter of fresh fruit we share, 
swirling in story of religious care. 

We are the flash of stars beyond time 
as we convey our memories in rhyme. 
We wake from sleep with the uncanny chime 
to watch strange play of the prophetic mime. 
We are the growth of sparkling galaxies, 
swirling in story of biblical keys. 

We are the magnet of our iron core 
that weaves our lives in legendary lore. 
We channel faith through the world-leaping door 
that leaves us stranded on the misty moor. 
We are the flame of spirit alchemy, 
swirling in story of brain blasphemy. 

We are the faces blind children have drawn 
while searching for eggs on the castle lawn. 
We join the revolution of the pawn 
who crowns himself new emperor at dawn. 
We are the program of our psychic genes, 
swirling in story of weird dream machines. 

We are the agency of mental code 
that urges us to walk the signless road. 
We colonize swamp of the singing toad 
who teaches us to formulate God Mode. 
We are the window of the longing heart, 
swirling in story of the stellar chart. 

We are brave question of the wordless why 
since our consciousness blanks out when we die. 
We speak about great deeds we want to try 
as the wingless angel who cannot fly. 
We are the riddle lost without a clue, 
swirling in story that is never true. 

Viewless Wings Of Poesy

Viewless Wings Of Poesy
© Surazeus
2026 02 25

Startled awake from drowsy dreams of hope, 
I hear light-winged Dryad of pear trees 
sing of summer with sharp electric ease 
that echoes with melodious ache of love 
in vast suburban maze of cheerful homes 
far from lone highway where my spirit roams. 

Since I returned unseen to world of work, 
because I faded not in forest sheen, 
with bottled liquor of the Hippocrene, 
from long afternoons singing in the park, 
I bring with me strange songs of haunted woods 
that radiate lustrous eyes in neighborhoods. 

Almost grown specter-thin with pale despair, 
I journeyed far across lush evening land 
and found bright glow of passion in brave bond 
through viewless wings of Poesy in air 
I breathe to transform sorrow in clear psalm 
with vibrant tones that teach my heart brave calm. 

Forever now in love with easeful Death, 
immortal Muse who knows my secret name, 
I chant ecstatic tune that dares not tame 
dynamic force of wisdom with brave faith 
expanding conscious scope of my respect 
for clever insight of the Architect. 

Amid the alien corn of my desire 
I open magic casement of my heart 
to find my place on Earth by the star chart, 
yet sing out of tune with the global choir 
since I bear book from fairy land forlorn 
with puzzling map that shows where I was born. 

Uncanny dream song of the nightingale 
lures me to grove of wild fruit trees at dusk 
where I see angel wearing mortal mask 
strum lyre of Mercury with joy, and wail 
heart-aching ode to beauty of this life 
that forges courage from confusing strife. 

Performing roles of emperor and clown, 
young Mercury sings ode of aching hope 
that suffering will teach our hearts to cope 
by breathing faith to wear celestial gown, 
inspired by music of the nightingale 
that reveals secret of the Holy Grail. 

When I hear forlorn bells of fairy land 
unveil mysterious path to my True Self, 
I follow song of that deceiving elf 
who lures me to weird garden of my mind 
where I sing plaintive anthem with clear voice 
that proves we map our fate with every choice. 

Misaligned Features Of Fate

Misaligned Features Of Fate
© Surazeus
2026 02 25

Cruel as the joke of life sometimes might be 
I find strange beauty in weird messiness 
that renders landscape of our mental space 
crooked with misaligned features of fate 
in contrast with delusions of desire 
our brains project on what we wish could be. 

Peter cocks his head and stares at dark clouds, 
then grins as if his argument made sense, 
but shrugs and watches boys on grassy field 
play football with assertive force of pride 
by sprinting with their treasure to the goal 
that replays fight of rival towns for wealth. 

Just as both teams meet at the scrimmage line 
to start another down with standard run, 
someone in black jacket runs on the field 
and shoots at players with shotgun of rage, 
killing the quarterback and several players, 
then everyone in the stands starts to scream. 

Chaos of people running everywhere 
erupts from controlled ritual of observance, 
but Peter drops beer can with gleaming eyes, 
runs straight through the swirling crowd of scared souls 
toward looming shadow of the evil demon 
and tackles the shooter with brutal force. 

Gripping arms of the shooter with tight fists, 
Peter waits till police handcuff his wrists, 
then glares at young boy with scar on his face 
who growls that the quarterback and his pals 
gang-raped his sister and left her for dead, 
so God told him to send their souls to Hell. 

We cannot take the law in our own hands, 
Peter wants to declare with noble voice, 
but police take him away in the van 
down the dark road while lights flash blue and red, 
so he stares stunned at bright blood on the grass 
as journalists with cameras call him hero. 

Our world is structure of atomic sparks 
so actions of our hands, sparked by our will, 
construct or destruct the structures of things 
through force of energy we gesture forth 
when visions of the world inside our brains 
moralize the real world our minds perceive. 

While guarding Gate of Paradise with law 
to attend credentials of characters 
requesting entrance to Garden of Eden, 
Peter studies passport of the young man 
who killed the rapists who abused his sister, 
then stamps approved, allowing him to enter. 

Relate My Weird Tale

Relate My Weird Tale
© Surazeus
2026 02 24

If she spends her days in tears people shed, 
she may lose her eyes to the faceless god 
who looks just like her father of the moon 
so she explains with psychiatrist tone 
that we have a nameless stranger in us 
whose dark feelings are superfluous. 

She holds her breath with courageous attempt 
to prove her companions should be exempt 
from sudden nothingness of wordless death 
who like to sing with oceanic breath 
assertive psalm of holy dizziness 
to the dead on bridge of forgetfulness. 

Because we learned to ambulate upright 
while dancing in the shallow ocean tide, 
she tells me she feels dizzy in her heart 
because our world is spinning off the chart, 
then reminds me that I should change my life 
after she decides she will be my wife. 

She digs in mass grave of dead languages 
to find the expert ghost of loneliness 
while hanging from the building roof of pride 
that she has found where all the angels hide 
by singing with the mocking bird of fate 
who untwists formulas of selfish hate. 

When Death stands near us in the twilight zone, 
she touches truth that radiates from the phone, 
then measures fluctuating flow of time 
that morphs my soul into the Shadow Mime 
so I teach you to chant alchemic spells 
which helps me find my eyes in runic wells. 

We burn dead body of our fallen god 
whose spirit calculates psychotic code 
required by angels of the justice squad 
to track my evolution through each node 
four hundred million years from fish to fool 
who plays humble king in the play at school. 

Since I am hungry for electric fruit, 
I drive white truck while wearing satin suit, 
accelerating through each cosmic frame 
across the multiverse to find my name 
carved with seraphic runes on granite cliffs 
that relate my weird tale with petroglyphs. 

When she traces our sprawling family tree 
to find roots of our brains in physic key, 
she finds first person in our gene bloodline 
is Owl of Athena trapped in the shrine 
where Mercury sings of the Traveler 
who hides that he is son of Lucifer. 

Grandson Of Cassandra

Grandson Of Cassandra
© Surazeus
2026 02 24

Grandson of Cassandra, Sybil of Truth, 
I prophesy events of global change 
in psychic code of clever fairy tales 
that foretell coming of messiah sleuth 
whose principles cover whole social range 
designed to analyze commercial sales. 

In love with Sybil of Cimmeria, 
where dark clouds loom above vast city maze, 
I transcribe riddles she proclaims in trance, 
preserved through temples of Sumeria 
to help us navigate next social phase 
when Fortune gambles our brief lives with chance. 

Exact location of the sacred fane, 
where Roma tends warm hearth of our safe home, 
eludes aggressive stalkers seeking wealth 
because she dwells on bright celestial plane 
where I hide timeless beauty in dream tome 
that fools should read to maintain mental health. 

Cruel Saturn teaches young Mercurius 
strange art of weaving words with tangled threads 
in shining tapestry of world events 
so when I am reborn as Sirius 
I have tools to retrieve from fragile heads 
conceptual tropes that guide wise presidents. 

Alert to sudden shifts in public vibes, 
that flash from sentimental anecdotes 
when Fate highlights souls who stumble on stage 
to play roles that channel spirit of their tribes, 
I encourage people to cast their votes 
for seer who transforms respect from blind rage. 

Trained by mute Cassandra to analyze 
dramatic scenes of interacting souls 
that portray weird zeitgeist of our Hive Mind, 
I organize gangs of poetry spies 
who manipulate people to play roles 
in social games that suffering has streamlined. 

Master of community services 
providing support for war refugees, 
I hide my power of the puppeteer 
with mask that mirrors polished surfaces 
in vain attempt to suppress tragedies 
officials commit for the chanticleer. 

Cassandra, who lies trembling in my arms, 
grandmother Sybil of Cimmerian hills 
who changed history with secret prophecies, 
explains how she lives reborn as my charms, 
then gives me ancient book of vatic spells 
with formulas that bind democracies. 

Silence Of Fake Words

Silence Of Fake Words
© Surazeus
2026 02 23

Down here in dirty cavern of my heart, 
I slouch with passive passion for this life, 
half-awake beneath surface of grim fear, 
wondering if could crawl back up from Hell 
so I can jump off high cliff of despair 
and float on wings of Icarus nowhere. 

Unseen in shadow of the faceless god 
who stands as grand idol above the crowd, 
I mumble spells that no one ever hears 
through troubling hum of my interior self 
that vanishes in silence of fake words 
when you listen close to understand fear. 

Shocked at moment of terrible insight 
by self-exploration of wordless despair, 
I wear mask of self-awareness to hide 
demonic storm of hate that writhes with lust 
in pulsing passion of my hungry heart 
when I fail to analyze psychic noise. 

Startled by clanging bells of dire alarms 
that rattle fire-station walls with woke jokes, 
I scream at portraits of ghosts on the wall 
who threaten to devour my apple heart, 
so I lie on my back on marble floor 
to let gallery viewers trample me. 

Crawling drunk on country dirt-road of faith, 
I tremble paralyzed by divine light 
when God approaches in the starless night 
as glaring headlights of the semitruck 
that crushes my perspective into dust 
though I photograph piston-engine guts. 

Head bowed in contemplation of regret 
from vain attempt to untwist moral laws 
with blunt authority of bitter gods, 
I empower embrace of naked Death 
in frantic avoidance of mental angst 
that beams image of my soul in the mirror. 

Haughty with genius of performance tricks, 
I fall in love with image of my Self 
which I invent from psychotic remains 
of famous word wizards who sang love spells 
which lures attention from inner turmoil 
concealed by surface mask of conscious breath. 

Blind shadow of all my ancestors lurks 
in hollow shimmer of my doorless room 
so I displace my god-bright consciousness 
in flashing television screen of dreams 
that urges me to leap in toxic pool 
with gritty influx of irreverent faith. 

Tears Of Happy Rain

Tears Of Happy Rain
© Surazeus
2026 02 23

On hands and knees of brave alacrity, 
bruised by bitter faith in the Promised Land, 
Ellen crawls across muddy field of fear 
with fierce indifference of the thunderstorm 
that drenches her in tears of happy rain 
which seeks to cleanse her heart of futile pain. 

Ellen breathes ethereal light of respect 
with passion to inflate cordial concern, 
then stumbles in sparse grove of apple trees 
to coil elastic sinews of her soul 
wound tight in sheltering canopy of faith 
by huddling against cold wind of despair. 

Eyes blinking with blurred insight of her watch 
that never measures slow passage of change, 
Ellen imagines she dials time backward 
to undrench field of mud in silver rain 
far enough that she sees the stone in time 
to swerve the car aside before the crash. 

Unbreak the wheel of Helios with foresight, 
Ellen tells herself with wry grin of angst 
while peering through flashing curtains of rain 
to spot demonic monsters with sharp teeth 
before they attack and rip out her heart 
that pounds with cautious readiness to flee. 

Ellen sighs as she peers through silver sheen 
to assess situation with the car 
that lies battered and twisted on its side, 
and notes right front wheel brokely spinning slow 
with grim accusatory glare of fate, 
then ponders how to right the vehicle. 

Like the wounded horse fallen on its side 
from breaking its leg against unseen rock, 
dim headlights of the car stare in her eyes 
with forlorn anguish of confusing pain 
that stabs her heart with sudden flush of guilt, 
so she aches to comfort crashed car with care. 

Bemused that she imagines non-souled car, 
constructed from metal, rubber, and wood, 
with piston engine powered by gasoline, 
must feel pain and fear in its suffering, 
Ellen chuckles this empathy persists 
against all rational analysis. 

Arms and legs bruised from wrenching accident, 
Ellen eats several apples from the tree 
as gold sunrays glitter after the storm, 
then limps slowly back to overturned car 
to caress its dented hood with compassion, 
but cries at the death of her favorite horse. 

True Nature Of Christ

True Nature Of Christ
© Surazeus
2026 02 22

Randomly wandering off somewhere else, 
I sit by the river of clarity 
and listen to the scream of butterflies 
that catalogue how incompetent kings 
cause their civilizations to collapse 
by crushing critical experiments. 

While people in the building on the hill 
argue about the true nature of Christ, 
whether God created him from the stone 
or whether he is eternal as the wind, 
I hum harmonious catalyst of faith 
that highlights the indifference of Nature. 

I ponder concept of the Holy Ghost 
who sparks gasoline of electric hope 
without dynamic formulas for fate 
we sell each other in the marketplace 
through graphical interface of dire thoughts 
impressive with index of verbal bombs. 

Reordered medium of mutual creeds 
might maximize our maternal instincts 
contrived by magic minister of reason 
who sells salvation to synthetic brides 
at standardized reunion of glass schools 
secure with sediment of salaries. 

Rude receiver of messages from God 
presents tremendous terms of unity 
while on vacation to the Promised Land 
where children volunteer to feed the poor 
who celebrate grand victory of their team 
at fight for wisdom on the waterfront. 

Untitled prince who roams the wilderness 
stops at each house in the shadowy woods 
to praise accomplishments of the mad clown 
who treasures quality of polished bowls 
which he presents at every seminar 
as specialized game of socialist code. 

Despite regression of the psychic mode, 
Remus falls asleep in algebra class 
though Lakshmi taps him on the shoulder blade 
before the evening sun begins to fade 
erasing every church from dream of time 
so people walk with nothing in their hands. 

As passive character of my own tale, 
I confront some small problem in my life, 
meditating on strange complexity 
inherent in our worship of the light, 
but take no action that might change the world, 
then wander somewhere else I never am. 

Emptiness Of The Mind

Emptiness Of The Mind
© Surazeus
2026 02 22

Because I seek emptiness of the mind, 
erasing special features from my face 
so I become the universal soul, 
I leave my name as mask on broken ground 
with nonchalant indifference of true faith 
to empathize with every soul on Earth. 

Carmentis carves letters as keys for tones 
that symbolize the sounds of words we speak, 
transforming letters that Cadmus designed 
to better match speech her tribesmen express, 
then sings the heart-charming spell she composed 
while Mercurius strums strings of his lyre. 

Bearing bright-eyed son of Mercurius, 
Carmentis holds new-born child in her arms 
and beams with joy as he suckles fresh milk, 
then hums charming melody with soft voice 
while she ponders what name of noble sense 
she will choose to address him with respect. 

Leaning against marble statue of Pallas, 
that stands with spear and cape in temple hall 
on hill of Pallantium in Arcadia, 
Mercurius adjusts strings of his lyre 
while his curious son crawls on his lap 
and giggles when he plucks taut strings of time. 

Running with his pet wolf in rugged hills, 
Evander finds two men in apple grove 
grasp arms of young woman with cruel intent 
while their leader attempts to kiss her mouth, 
so he drives them away with magic wand, 
then cleans her face and gives her juice to drink. 

While lounging with Clytia beside the pool, 
Evander vows to marry her with love, 
but Tantalus bursts into temple hall 
and shouts with rage that Clytia is his wife, 
so Evander flees far across the sea, 
and sails till he lands on shore of Latium. 

Exhausted from his trip across the sea, 
Evander crawls to temple in dark woods 
where gold-haired Latina offers him juice, 
spiced apple cider that revives his heart, 
so he brings firewood and water in jars, 
gazing with love as she bakes loaves of bread. 

Bearing bright-eyed daughter of Evander, 
Latina teaches her to analyze 
social events with code of prophecy, 
so Roma presides at the temple hearth 
while strumming dream lyre of Mercurius 
whose spirit wakes in sparkle of her eyes. 

Games Of Word Power

Games Of Word Power
© Surazeus
2026 02 22

I played my part in the national tale 
though no one noticed my performance art, 
so who will be surprised when it falls apart 
because I finally caught the great white whale 
and saved America from tyranny 
by redirecting global symphony. 

When I transform into tall tree of light 
and float as mist above tree-shrouded hills 
so my soul shimmers clear in mountain rills, 
I channel soul of Star God through dream flight 
by singing in harmony with the stream 
where we unite and work as loyal team. 

Sunlight gleams on lake of demonic force 
while I write name of every famous mind 
who played on stage of hope that fate designed 
in quest to seek psychological source 
from which springs energy of social change 
that drives some to express whole mental range. 

Untwisting threads of fortune tangled tight, 
from which no human spirit can escape, 
I wear leather Dracula boots and cape 
while recording tales of the human plight 
dramatized as gods on the global stage, 
who play characters on the unread page. 

Though Fame never cast her eyes on my face, 
illuminating both weakness and strength 
that calculate with fractured scenes coiled length 
expanding my conscious sense of dream space, 
I celebrate success of role I played 
with solemn eloquence that needs no grade. 

Kwan Yin provides conceptual scope of health, 
preserved in luscious peach of timeless spark 
as bright atomic ray from divine quark, 
which fuels ascension of my soul through stealth 
from ever-changing sphere of molecules 
to wake as mortal god from chemicals. 

Intense with sudden insight of mute rain, 
I gaze out window of my roadless home 
at wagon trains that pass the crumbling dome 
to colonize farms on the river plain 
far from political games of state power 
so children can find truth in the star flower. 

Frustrated by fake role of loyal fool 
both church and state demanded I should play, 
I rewrite brain program script to portray 
creative architect who wields word tool 
to conjure virtual model of the Earth 
designed with progressive code of soul birth. 

Though you will never know the role I played 
as minor function in global machine, 
you may see ghosts glow on the silver screen 
that perform tale of Savior and Mermaid 
till we all go home when the play is done 
since Death cares not about who lost or won. 

Infinite Location Of Faith

Infinite Location Of Faith
© Surazeus
2026 02 22

Trivial circle of heart-breaking despair 
precludes expressive vision beyond death 
except repetitive gestures of hope 
trapped by mechanical actions of hands 
grasping slippery curve of the universe 
by looping back to cave of helplessness. 

Foundational assumptions about life 
on which I ramble with unconscious trust 
crack at brutal rays of honest despair 
and crumble into illusory sand 
so all I thought was true is incorrect, 
delusions that vanish at frantic grasps. 

Disoriented by delusions of false hope, 
I stumble through concept of the abyss, 
lost in dizzy haze of the endless maze, 
stuck at infinite location of faith 
unlocated in vast reality 
till I become the essence of nowhere. 

All meaning my mind invented from hope 
dissipates with mist in glare of the sun 
so I ache as I strive to comprehend 
phenomenon inherent in each thing 
that pulses with assumptions I devised 
though I mumble words to express my truth. 

Manipulated by petty desires 
that urge my actions to acquire respect, 
I struggle trapped in web of predilections, 
blinded by illusions my brain invents, 
till I stand naked in abysmal stasis, 
unknowing in profundity of why. 

Embraced by desire to live beyond death, 
my worn-out heart flutters its wounded wings 
when ultimate illusion of my truth, 
which I thought was eternal as high mountains, 
dissolves in blustery wind of wild waves 
that crush my words with cold indifference. 

Though I fancied myself sprite of free will, 
asserting my vision with honest words, 
I find my body of chemical fluids 
is no ethereal angel of pure light, 
but lust-automated reflex machine 
programmed by ancestral dreams of survival. 

With honest assessment of fallen angels, 
I know my self is charade of desire, 
mental computer of composite creeds 
designed to process experience of hope, 
so I embrace your body with my heart 
and we make love that banishes despair. 

One Of The Winged Seraphs

One Of The Winged Seraphs
© Surazeus
2026 02 21

When he stumbles drunk in the Promised Land, 
waving tattered book of weird fairy tales 
in his hand, Richard shouts at Tree of Life 
that he is in love with Annabel Lee 
because he is one of the winged seraphs 
who escaped Heaven with arrogant wings. 

Smearing blood of rainbows with joyful rage, 
while shouting insults at proud Gabriel, 
Richard paints Tarzan on cold marble wall 
to offend bright angels who rule the skies, 
but they smile at antics of the wild child 
who falls asleep by mushroom of the toad. 

Irreverent voice of the subjective clown, 
that withers holy daffodils of faith, 
bulges from his chest with assertive pride 
to tear constraints of strict morality 
with alligator teeth of jealousy, 
rejecting formal patterns of concern. 

Perceived as intellectual clown of faith, 
who maintains illusion of divine truth, 
Richard tears pages out of holy books 
to rearrange scenes of dramatic scope 
where he plays role of the very clean tramp 
who smashes god idols with steel guitars. 

Grave pursuit of obliteration proves 
crystal-clear melodies of chiming suites 
disarrange mental sense of ordered time 
through dynamic physics of fractured words 
which spool consistent concepts of regret 
since every moment binds eternity. 

Rehearsed narratives honest people code 
counterbalance sober insight with rage 
of circumscribed progress relapsing straight 
through puzzle of prepared absurdity 
when Richard abandons his youthful game 
for glossier assignments trashing truth. 

Continuous rejection by Perun, 
who catches lightning bolts with oaken wand, 
convinces Richard to trap ocean ghosts 
with undeveloped spirals spinning lies 
by weaving repertoire of holy clowns 
with self-invention through misquoted tricks. 

Reborn as television god of lies, 
who builds river boats from angelic bones, 
Richard attempts to escape from bland Hell, 
that he created with attentive care, 
by fighting against predetermined fate 
that his ancestors programmed in his brain. 

Hour Of False Grace

Hour Of False Grace
© Surazeus
2026 02 21

Nine times around the lake of sparkling eyes 
lithe Sylphus races clockwork orange of fate 
to dance with crystal wings of butterflies 
in frantic ritual to expel blind hate 
from seething body of the human race 
who sell their freedom for hour of false grace. 

Contraptions of desire collapse in shards 
that tighten roots of misdirected hope 
slammed with fluorescent keys of bitter cards 
designed to fracture wands fools steal to cope 
with time-contracted breath of confidence 
unspooling spiteful jokes of innocence. 

Determined to run time back home from fear 
by sprinting nowhere high on fragile thoughts, 
sad Sylphus questions far-flung words too near 
through frantic alibi of blind robots, 
yet maps departure to the unknown space 
with brave defiance of the blazing face. 

Drawn from bright shadows of the noon eclipse 
by snarling angels chained to temple poles, 
sly Sylphus swims vast oceans on slow trips 
against assertive tides of social goals 
contrived as law by tyrant on the hill 
who sneers at our assertion of free will. 

Though sweet celestial dreams of paradise 
rise from his heart and disappear at dawn, 
proud Sylphus brews from apricots and spice 
poisonous wine with brains of demon spawn 
who slither from spiraled telephone lines 
with stiff distrust of sudden porcupines. 

Supine airlines of loyal globalists 
connect disparate states of mental being 
with burning crosses doused by atheists 
who shake honest rattles of suffering 
when we escape collapse of empire clans 
who sell mansions and live in hopeless vans. 

Trapped by grim loneliness of broken words, 
bold Sylphus dares communicate with spells 
weird secrets of his heart to happy birds 
who guide his journey to find healing wells 
so he sees life with luminosity 
that radiates his brain with jocosity. 

You see kind Sylphus everywhere you go 
in maze of stores along cosmetic roads, 
disguised as humble workers for the show 
who play with brave dynamics of the toad 
in safe enclosures through equality, 
reserved for world reign of our deity. 

Turtle With Swan Wings

Turtle With Swan Wings
© Surazeus
2026 02 21

Strange as it seems to the alphabet god, 
I wade in bright lake of arrogant peace 
to catch demonic energy of fear 
and roast large fish in domed temple of truth, 
then sing with crickets in the twilight hour 
when Death catches the tyrant in the tower. 

Silver rain splashing on window of time 
reveals strange beauty of this world I love, 
refracting faces of strangers who live 
in doorless houses of my neighborhood, 
so I stand on stone bridge of timeless faith 
and listen to song of the star-eyed wraith. 

When people gather in the city park 
for the annual poetry festival, 
I morph into the turtle with swan wings 
to fly across the prairie of respect 
and walk in valley of the singing skull 
to hear sweet spell only rivers can sing. 

Though my heart is broken by civil wars 
that displace families from ancestral homes, 
the way Minerva smiles at me and laughs 
while we are strolling on the river shore 
heals secret wounds with charm of simple joy 
because despair flows away to the sea. 

Rivers have flowed from mountains to the seas 
four billion years of shining crystal eyes, 
and water will keep cycling through our hearts 
another billion years of spinning hope, 
so I kneel reverently in glowing grass 
and drink clear liquid in cupped hands of love. 

I pray to totems of Bacchus and Thor 
who laugh with joy at calm absurdity 
as we dance cheerful with anxiety 
to celebrate savage science of truth 
in war against the psychopathic god 
who blusters with obsessive angst at Death. 

Imperial pride of superior grace 
glares fiercely from cracked mirror of despair 
that drives brave Vikings mad in frantic fear 
when glass cathedrals crack from greedy prayers 
which leaves their treasured creeds exposed to rain 
washing pious fantasies to the sea. 

Stuck on the carousel of history 
that hurls my horse of courage into war, 
I race with passion past my destiny 
by swerving willfully from violent hate, 
and choose to welcome refugees of fate 
to build communal paradise of farms. 

Puzzle Of My Soul

Puzzle Of My Soul
© Surazeus
2026 02 21

Blithely assertive with ardent affection, 
I glow with quantum authenticity 
by stretching bandwidth of my psychic wings 
to soar in cloud of human-vibrant dreams 
that pulse with cosmic energy of hope 
as I assemble puzzle of my soul. 

Shocked by awesome beauty of dreamless stars, 
I wander nowhere in cement street maze 
with vague purpose of clandestine concern 
to find the angel I saw fall from Heaven 
so she can tell me secrets of the heart 
for wearing masks of heroes without care. 

Desperately aloof with fierce apathy, 
I flip insouciance with negligent plan 
to change world system of capital games 
so profit favors those who work the hardest 
though parasites drink from my bleeding heart 
with false integrity of patriots. 

Certified prophet of dangerous programs, 
designed to misdirect fraught deficits 
against dependence of spiritual sprites, 
I smear generic blood of history 
on forensic walls of bland galleries 
where bankers buy hazardous truths from artists. 

Optical riddles through mechanic thoughts 
monitor mysterious nurses of faith 
whose brave offensive hands heal mutant fools 
reborn as normal citizens of time 
who orchestrate routines of soul survival 
based on unlicensed puzzle of my soul. 

Nominal model of fashionable pride 
administers marginal show of beauty 
with lavender leadership of contempt 
pursuant to progressive relevance 
dispersed by constant crowd of vigilance 
unqualified to transmit tragedy. 

Vanity played by humble volunteers 
through magnitude of mortal membership 
should maximize my viability 
for martial legacy of microwaves 
modified by monuments of contrition 
for mutual misery of forgotten crimes. 

Nitrogen trust in organized resistance 
explodes with prejudice of false redemption, 
yet stoic protocols through synthesis 
supplement technical bias of trivia 
upgrading versatile skills by osmosis 
though I stare blind through verbal telescopes. 

Frail Rose Of Beauty

Frail Rose Of Beauty
© Surazeus
2026 02 20

Unbidden by grim councils of desire, 
our uncorrupted rose of beauty blooms 
beneath the starry dome of eerie hope 
with fragile petals of our mortal hearts 
that breathe strange sweetness of celestial love 
in anguished hush of timeless twilight glow. 

Sweet rose of beauty blooming from my heart 
demands no vote from politics or creeds, 
nor bends its head to banners in the square 
where people march with mindless fear of death, 
since sunlight is the only law it heeds 
and air is divine gospel of its breath. 

Pure rose of beauty thrives within stone walls 
where truth protects it from the strife of power, 
safe from brazen trumpets that bruise the sky 
when flaring colors blind the loyal eye 
and gilded emblems fool the heart to lie 
in obedience to grand lord in the tower. 

Shackled by demands from profiteers 
to conjure illusions of wealth from death, 
frail rose of beauty learns the cunning tongue 
to sing of glory forged from iron flame, 
so she strums lyre by ideologues restrung, 
shouting loud praise that masks clandestine aims. 

No wise artist could transcend dire disgrace 
when grace of their chisel is pressed to carve 
brave brow of the tyrant in marble mask, 
nor bold brush of the painter schooled to glam 
scenes of noble deeds that never occur 
which trick the multitudes to bow with awe. 

Firm hand of the sculptor, that once released 
ideal soul of the hero from bright stone, 
and trembled at bright gleam of mortal sorrow 
with passion to depict beauty of man, 
now labors in directed trance of fear 
where truth is trimmed from sacred myths of faith. 

Yet deep within our secret-breathing grove, 
where refugees from war seek healing peace, 
the nightingale, unbriefed by state or throne, 
expresses holy hymn of sacred love 
that proves respect for all forever blooms 
in bold cadence no doctrine could intone. 

For bright in every human in this world 
our conscious soul, from pageantry set free, 
drinks beauty of community we share 
from stream of truth the Earth provides for all, 
not by harsh trumpet of conformity, 
but in choir that blends all voices in tune. 

Of The Television Screen

Of The Television Screen
© Surazeus
2026 02 20

I wake up in the television screen, 
brain blooming billions of bland human beings 
who brilliantly berate with purple praise 
enormous idol of their blank-faced god 
who grins with bitter angst of butterflies 
at soft explosions of conceptual thoughts. 

I break up in the television screen 
as founding member of the corporate cohort 
concerned with clank of critical contempt 
at clash of Titans on the internet 
who fight the holy war of sonic youth 
to break electric chains of credit cards. 

I crack out from the television screen 
to swallow army tanks of policies 
based on intrinsic attributes of faith 
when brave professors of untamed desire 
contemplate process of soul suicide 
in context of imminent plans to laugh. 

I squirm out of the television screen 
with fractured shards of mirrors on my face, 
and lie down prone by grave of every child, 
killed by commercial programs of the state, 
to play dead with glass mask of Jupiter 
that glamours with precarious self-regard. 

I fall out of the television screen 
and tumble laughing on the White House lawn 
since tattered wings of Icarus are mine 
despite their enigmatic thoughts of love 
when I cross hands across my wounded chest 
that helps me fly in selfish grave of hope. 

I writhe inside the television screen 
with ardent wisdom of the orphanage, 
smeared with internalized oblivion, 
and march along assembly line of fate 
to robot bondage in car factories, 
trapped in the desperate dead-end life of hope. 

I curl around the television screen 
with brave malignancy of banking kings 
who sing anthems with rhetorical fluff 
contrived from inaccessible respect 
through generous validation of the sad 
regardless of our search for broken minds. 

I blast off from the television screen 
on wingless agency of hopeless fear 
embedded inside obvious clock of trust 
if we transcend confining psychic space 
with brutal innocence of blind Narcissus 
who eats the caged bird when it dares to sing. 

Gods After Bodies Die

Gods After Bodies Die
© Surazeus
2026 02 19

Immortalized by stories humans tell, 
mortals become gods after bodies die, 
so we draw memories from our mental well 
to conjure heroes from our global eye 
whose deeds create good benefiting all 
as moral guide contained in psychic key. 

Prometheus steals brand of fire from Zeus 
and teaches tribe of humans how to cook, 
so we design machines that mass-produce 
cars and computers of the Holy Book, 
then fly in rocket ships to Outer Space 
to find our Earth is giant spinning rock. 

Grim Jupiter assembles justice squad 
who forge brass scepters with sharp diamond spears 
to fight oppressive Titans, then plays God 
who drives fast race car with time-machine gears 
in tandem with celestial flashing node 
that proves our souls are atoms forged by stars. 

Apollo strums electric brain guitar 
to howl weird hymn of love in microphone 
as global rock god who rules Zathamar 
with Sisyphus who drums the rolling stone 
in frantic revolution of the door 
expanding our perception of this plane. 

Some humans play grand role of holy ghost 
whose play embodies spirit of their tribe 
entranced by solemn antics of their host 
who channels singing stars with social vibe 
so their face becomes symbol of the best 
pretenders wear as mask with priestly robe. 

Queen Ishtar rules on ziggurat of truth 
and sends her daughters to evangelize 
conceptual scriptures of messiah sleuth 
which found religions on aesthetic lies 
designed to trap our minds in mindless faith 
till rogue clowns deconstruct cathedral shows. 

Though millions worship Jesus Christ as God 
that mortal man, who nurtured followers, 
and rescued slaves from Hell with angel squad, 
died after he defeated puppeteers, 
but fathered dynasties of castle kings 
who ruled two thousand years with jeweled crowns. 

Our Pantheon of humans in god form 
is crowded now with heroes of the past 
whose noble deeds are scattered by the storm 
so theater of worship has huge cast 
of aspiring stars who all left the farm 
to play in movies on the hilly coast. 

I worship every god who ever lived 
for they are paragons of human souls 
whose great deeds cause our paradigm to shift 
so everybody seeks to play god role 
in our golden age of angelic souls 
singing together in our global choir. 

Bright Voice Of Tellus

Bright Voice Of Tellus
© Surazeus
2026 02 19

I hear bright voice of Tellus in my heart 
when Mother Earth sings vision of her world 
through wind and water of our swirling globe 
so I breathe deep clear spirit of her mind 
to translate wordless joy of fertile life 
with spells that hint at glory of her power. 

Each Mother Goddess in cultural myths 
embodies soul of one special mortal woman 
who lived so large in drama of her tribe 
that their proud bards, inspired by her grand deeds, 
deified her name with worshipful verse 
that preserves her soul so she transcends death. 

All gods and goddesses of ancient tales 
record grand lives of mortal men and women 
whose dramatic acts provide social frame 
for how we view our human characters 
when we explore fierce psychic energies 
that urge our own performance in this life. 

Each conscious human breathing air of Earth 
finds deep in tangled memories of hope 
moral values their ancestors programmed 
through intense actions to survive each day 
which we assemble in puzzle of truth 
to imitate life of deified parents. 

Each god or goddess humans choose to worship 
embodies way of life providing laws 
that guide how we respond to situations 
when we wear mask of our true deity 
which molds our secret soul in divine form 
till we break free and become our True Self. 

Combining features of Jesus, Apollo, 
Odin, and Orpheus in one weird mask, 
polished with sheen of Zeus and Lucifer, 
I create myself as Surazeus 
Astarius Jesuvius Gothinus, 
transformed from mortal man to character. 

So when this mortal body I am dies, 
and crumbles into soil for apple seeds, 
and conscious soul of my brain dissipates 
to nothing more than flashing molecules, 
Spirit of Surazeus will remain 
as concept preserved in spells I compose. 

Animated by First Mother of Mankind, 
that one woman who gave birth to us all, 
I live this temporary life of faith 
to sing bright voice of Tellus in my heart, 
recording memories my ancestors lived, 
then I will vanish in the silent wind. 

Fragile Flame Of Dreams

Fragile Flame Of Dreams
© Surazeus
2026 02 18

Guided safely by fragile flame of dreams, 
I wander blithely endless maze of myths, 
stopping to chat with idols of dead gods 
as I enquire about their social lives 
when we share drinks and contemplate the world, 
then I continue on my merry way. 

Awake from play in fragile flame of dreams, 
I walk pathway along the grassy hill 
where children of the stars play hide and seek 
then run inside the seven-gabled house 
to eat chocolate cake and watch fun cartoons 
while children in distant lands flee from bombs. 

Surprised by light from fragile flame of dreams, 
I gaze at tattered Wings of Icarus 
mounted within glass case near Crown of Thorns 
inside Museum of the Fallen God, 
but the guard dressed in clean uniform glares 
when I attempt to sneak a photograph. 

Amused by glow from fragile flame of dreams, 
I ask Apollo if he understands 
true nature of the graceful laurel tree, 
but he just strums guitar with angry glare 
and howls with hippie voice of psychic angst 
against the empire war-machine of fear. 

Confused by flash from fragile flame of dreams, 
I ask Beethoven how to play the lyre 
with stark electric anguish of true love 
for noble-hearted Brunhild with star eyes 
who hurls sharp spear of generosity 
at King Midas to save humanity. 

Inspired by hum from fragile flame of dreams, 
I chant, "Hail to the Jewel in the Lotus," 
while floating high on television tube 
that beams my body through the multiverse, 
incarnate as Avalokitesvara 
with hundred billion eyes of god-star brains. 

Reborn through egg in fragile flame of dreams, 
I retrieve Apple of Eris with hope 
of romance with wise goddess of the Earth, 
then stand before Saraswati, Kwan Yin, 
and Athena, contemplating which queen 
to offer rich fruit of my loyal heart. 

Destroyed by blast from fragile flame of dreams, 
I kneel in grand cathedral bombed to ruin, 
and grasp at shattered fragments of world view 
assembled by ancient philosophers, 
then design new Temple of Global Truth 
that merges all religions in one faith. 

Justice Rallies Us

Justice Rallies Us
© Surazeus
2026 02 18

I haunt this world as one already dead 
and thus transcend contemporary strife 
with visions of global peace in my head 
as ideal state of equal-justice life, 
because greedy men terrified of death 
oppress the rest of us by stealing breath. 

Attentive to mute anguish of the folk 
who hide their faces behind masks of pride, 
I program mental world view of the woke 
that guides progress of my confident stride 
when I unite with comrades of our land 
to counter theft by the capitalist hand. 

With star-spangled banner of Liberty 
we join brave effort to oppose cruel thugs 
who kidnap children of democracy, 
and rescue them with encouraging hugs, 
because together we learn how to cope 
when Justice rallies us with reborn hope. 

Our old world view lies shattered on the ground, 
smashed by fierce gang of wealthy oligarchs, 
so we assemble on republic mound 
in world coalition against monarchs 
and build from ruins of America 
United Nations of Zarathia. 

I haunt this world as one barely alive 
after harsh assault by kings in disguise, 
yet we join forces of truth to survive 
against exploiters who patrol the skies 
in planes that shoot bombs to destroy our homes 
so we wander where the blind prophet roams. 

We help Sisyphus with his rolling stone 
to smash gold idol of the clay-foot king 
who seems to tower over all alone 
but will crumble when brave Valkyries sing, 
so restoring our tax money he stole 
to fund free healthcare is our noble goal. 

With wings of Icarus I weave from faith 
I soar above our global city maze 
with message of success from the God Wraith 
whose love pilots our growth to the next phase 
as leader who nurtures our innates skills 
when we celebrate truth in flowered hills. 

We haunt our world with knowledge we will die 
yet strive to build lush paradise for all 
who quest for truth by analyzing why, 
then feast and sing in world-religion hall 
that binds our hearts and minds with code of truth 
composed by wisdom of messiah sleuth. 

Evening Star Of Choice

Evening Star Of Choice
© Surazeus
2026 02 17

If I feel the Evening Star through thick fog 
that half-veils tidal flats of kelp on rocks, 
though my eyes cannot perceive its sharp light, 
I may breathe time-swirled element of faith 
that jagged pool of invisible light 
may cleanse my wounded heart with honesty. 

Lost in dark fog of brutal watershine, 
far from safe cave of innocent respect, 
I transform into heron in low tide 
with eager hope to soar on graceful wings 
above contentious crowds of worshippers 
who seek to grasp bright calcium flame of truth. 

Scattered feathers from fallen angels twitch 
in hungry sand of fractured polity, 
oblique with evasive context of rage 
misleading sharp-eyed devils who require 
typographic planes of opaque dispute 
drawn from excessive expertise of fear. 

Imprinted layers of conceptual fate, 
still wrapped in umber clarity of trust, 
define unended journeys beyond fear 
condensed as statues guarding halls of lies 
where whispered secrets of gauzed confidence 
conceal our souls in figurines of glass. 

Though startling sequence of dream formulas 
pluck private strings of cordial scarcity, 
hall mirror faces mirror of my brain 
with law of splendid light to balance pain 
against collapsing telescope of fate 
through which I see the Evening Star of Choice. 

Amazed by radiance of the unseen house, 
preserving shocked glare of the puppeteer, 
I light ten thousand candles of my heart 
to highlight origin of tangled words 
that multiply our bodies from desire 
which thrive sparked on infinity effect. 

Electric construct of my mental Self, 
style modeled on profile of Orpheus 
refined by quantum energy of love, 
provides framework for weird ontology 
I program from puzzle of spectral souls 
which animates my fragile flame of dreams. 

Syntax of artificial chronicles, 
commissioned from my heart by primal gods, 
converts my thoughts to tangled threads of words 
which angels weave in global tapestries 
presenting unreal shadows of our brains 
we play as riddles in Plutonian homes. 

Ripe Apple Of The Sun

Ripe Apple Of The Sun
© Surazeus
2026 02 17

If I should catch ripe apple of the sun 
before it falls in thick Slough of Despond 
I may taste bitter sweetness of true love 
which is why the revolution is fought 
with passion for aspiring right to stand 
with fluted robe of hope on modern shores. 

We ride wave of this golden age with class, 
exquisite in white marble drapery 
that gleams with brutal wisdom of starlight 
in gleaming waters of the fountain pool 
where statues of our ancestors remain 
long after their souls program our genes. 

While change remains eternal principle 
that guides our progress from classical times, 
we gaze with rapture at excessive shapes 
contained in watery medium of our minds 
reflecting glimmer of grief in our eyes 
we cherish with consensual fortitude. 

Alive in warm flesh of young nameless boy, 
Apollo glides in cluttered streets of Rome 
with flute he plays for national orchestras 
on transparent stage of undevoured time 
to note accentual differences of rhyme 
we share as witness of treacherous death. 

Yet unread pages of the ancient book 
still mirror characters with noble traits 
who never walk this world in mortal flesh 
for they are ideals we aspire to play, 
stuck in impossible scenarios 
that always end in tragic loss of faith. 

Uncommon radiance of her special face 
gleams clear with incandescent honesty 
through immaterial passion to retrieve 
efficient confidence from tombs of fate, 
defined by absence of our mortal souls 
embodied by glass idols of respect. 

Endurance through aesthetic thoughtfulness 
reveals how numb bereavement frames our days 
with courage to survive contingencies 
no one but scarred survivors will expect 
though trapped in consolations of contempt 
that drown our hearts in cold indifferences. 

Assertive discipline of summoned ghosts 
constrains excessive passion to transcend 
bland credence of divisive energies 
that teach us how to understand our pain 
despite attempts to bank fateful accounts 
with apples we store in our wounded hearts. 

Office Of Messiah Sleuth

Office Of Messiah Sleuth
© Surazeus
2026 02 16

Since I can plumb the sinking of my soul 
in heat that sinews my abolished will, 
I will not cherish struggle to retreat 
against wild burning of eternal beat 
that teaches me to love beauty of Death 
whose energy recalculates dream math. 

I see our sky ascending black as light 
with startled judgment of attentive right 
above brick buildings on the rugged hill 
that twists stark epitaph of rainbow will 
against hosannah cries of bitter fear 
that highlights process of the river gear. 

If roots of wild ingrafted olive trees 
should wither at harsh breath of winter breeze 
I scale dire revelation of my heart 
with arcane code of wisdom on star chart 
which I consult to prophesy in code 
fall of our empire on the signless road. 

Yet night enchants ghost lion in blue glass 
that shields my heart from haughtiness of class 
to coil my soul in portrait of my brain 
wound tight in telescope of spirit gain 
that dulls excessive pain of wind-stung eyes 
concealed by mirror of time-fractured skies. 

No mountain in this world is now unscaled 
by ancient sages who have never failed 
to light bold hearth of science with respect 
defined by gorgeous flash of intellect 
so we may journey to the Promised Land 
found on no map composed by human hand. 

Still no miscarriage of my fertile brain, 
she gathers books to categorize gain 
against assertive reach of mad fame 
by choosing not to bandage wound with name 
that speaks with querulous voice of concern 
for how bitter men steal books to burn. 

Ephemeral music of our savage skies 
teaches children that every creature dies 
with graceful paranoia stricken weird 
by tearful knowledge of the disappeared 
who auction memories in the temple hall 
in fair exchange for coins earned at the ball. 

Monotony of vision mirrors hope 
exchanged for childhood tricks on how to cope 
despite my stature as calm nihilist 
convinced by theory of the Narcissist 
that we may bear unchanging scroll of truth 
contrived by office of messiah sleuth. 

Wordless Wonder Of Why

Wordless Wonder Of Why
© Surazeus
2026 02 16

I sometimes forget I am still alive 
so I open the door that goes nowhere 
and walk somewhere else I think I should be 
then stand for some time on the nowhere spot 
to think about nothing but warm sunlight 
that molds my soul from words I never speak. 

I remember with sudden flash of fear 
that I should be somewhere else about now 
so I run gasping for breath of the cloud 
through shadows of trees that call out to me 
but I stop by the pool of silver light 
and wonder if I have some kind of name. 

I may not be real as I think I am 
so I keep walking to the secret place 
while asking the bird with arrogant wings 
if anyone has the same face as me 
but she explains that I am made of rain 
so I hop and flap my arms to be real. 

I almost forget I want to transcend 
this fragile body that gets tired and hurt 
till I trip over the innocent stone 
which contains the secret name I should have 
so I caress rough surface of its mind 
till I become its true stillness of strength. 

I try to record visions of my eyes 
with marks I draw in soft dirt of the world 
but sudden gust of wind from black clouds 
erases memories of who I should be 
so I stand and walk toward the glowing beam 
that teleports me to top of the world. 

I look backward into shadowy woods 
and listen for creak of demonic trees 
that teach me how to speak words of my thoughts 
then turn forward to walk into the sky 
but I fall to my knees and laugh surprised 
at vast roundness of the world I perceive. 

I stand on top of the high mountain peak 
and reach my arms to touch the silver light 
then turn slowly around on trembling feet 
to feel endless rolling hills of green trees 
surrounded by silver shimmer of seas 
that understand wild beating of my heart. 

I howl loud with wordless wonder of why 
at awesome beauty of the turning world 
that gleams in writhing passion of my soul 
because my pulsing body is amazed 
that I am still alive with ache of love 
without concern that I will someday die. 

Ancient Wings Of Icarus

Ancient Wings Of Icarus
© Surazeus
2026 02 15

While on my quest to find the Holy Grail, 
hitchhiking far across this crazy land, 
I almost trip over long dragon tail 
that teleports my soul to Samarkand. 
With ancient wings of Icarus I fly 
around this world shaped like a giant eye. 

For deep inside my heart I hear the voice 
of humankind cry out for joyful peace 
because we make our fate with every choice 
since Plato pondered life in sunlit Greece. 
With ancient wings of Icarus I fly 
around this world shaped like a giant eye. 

Yet when the mighty wind of change blows wild 
across our land from sea to shining sea 
we rise with spirit of the newborn child 
and shape this land so everyone lives free. 
With ancient wings of Icarus I fly 
around this world shaped like a giant eye. 

Young wizard on the winding diamond road 
lifts ladder of brave opportunity 
so when hard rain falls at hum of the toad 
we bind all tribes in one community. 
With ancient wings of Icarus I fly 
around this world shaped like a giant eye. 

I travel with guitar of Mercury 
and sing in every town of working folk 
to cast bright vision with dream sorcery 
converting minds to lifestyle of the Woke. 
With ancient wings of Icarus I fly 
around this world shaped like a giant eye. 

Though sea of tears divides our lonely hearts 
we build global Bridge of Togetherness 
so rainbows shining on our psychic charts 
guide us to meadow of the shepherdess. 
With ancient wings of Icarus I fly 
around this world shaped like a giant eye. 

Long after empire of America 
falls from our disillusionment in truth, 
we gather in feast hall of Onatah 
where we vote for our new messiah sleuth. 
With ancient wings of Icarus I fly 
around this world shaped like a giant eye. 

Though I am lost in land of Zathamar, 
Seattle to Miami on the road, 
my soul transforms into the Morning Star 
from eating mushroom of the Buddha Toad. 
With ancient wings of Icarus I fly 
around this world shaped like a giant eye. 

Redesign God As Robot

Redesign God As Robot
© Surazeus
2026 02 15

Secret encounter with the howling rock 
excites regret for stealing ocean waves 
and selling them to black horse of the moon 
who always seems to know what words I eat 
with slavish laughter of marvelous dusk 
depicted by rupestral mask of life. 

Frail darkness of my voice fills void of hope 
with blazing cities stuck on jagged cliffs 
through my irresistible zeal concealed 
by stamps of genetic inheritance 
born from resplendent force of purity 
despite victorious angst of smoking swamps. 

Delicious dearth of dream-partitioned walls 
decides with sudden rain of screaming lamps 
to mimic fortitude dead angels share 
with bitter gods of non-eternal light 
who steal hot loaves of bread for nobody 
except to play chess in the smoking swamp. 

Now that Beauty shall be moral again 
we stand before the seething vat of ghosts 
who should wear delicate masks with pink lace 
if they return to forest of respect 
where wicked angels aim guns at their heads 
because they want to eat her apple pies. 

Untraceable stains of insulting sneers 
express continuum of harmful jokes 
disjointed from assertive rage at strength 
displayed by angels who resist their hate 
by walking quietly down small-town road 
because love is meat and drink of the heart. 

Difficult hour I shall make friends with Death 
decries strict resolution sold for peace 
through backward release of unfractured air 
unlocked by egregious snow of despair 
which depends on blood that spurts from our eyes 
by hangers that clatter on ice-slicked floors. 

Aspen tree tangled with barbed wire of fear 
calls for his yellow-haired mother of time 
to come home on the star-stripped road of fate 
at creak of rusty hinges on sad doors 
that rip her heart with agony of faith 
trapped by disappearing words of contempt. 

If we look Trickery in his rancid eye 
with eager bitterness to buy his lies 
we could fire guns at angels in the sky 
who drink bitter tears of electric spies 
since everything we thought was true is not, 
unless we redesign God as Robot. 

Wet Patio Of Time

Wet Patio Of Time
© Surazeus
2026 02 15

Twinkle of raindrops on patio planks 
wakes memories of weird dramatic scenes 
that her ancestors once experienced 
for millions of years on this turning globe 
when they sat in silence of everywhere 
on timeless afternoons of falling rain. 

Shadows of old memories from her life 
stretch bright across wet patio of time 
that echoes laughter of wind-swirling leaves 
to veil warm sunshine of her lonely smile 
that glows in garden of forgotten books 
where all sad stories of dead humans hide. 

She sighs that eager children of her heart 
have scattered far across the fertile land 
as seeds blown by indifferent wind of change 
that sprout in families with unknown names 
who cherish their own memories of life 
where she is ghost of absence none can see. 

Awake with mute complacency of love, 
she tries to play observer of their play 
with patient nonchalance of bitter hope, 
yet finds in space between unspoken words 
compassion for young strangers of her clan 
with love that sheds fierce urgency of hope. 

Holding small leather Bible in pale hands, 
she walks in black shoes and long yellow dress 
on dirt road to white church on the lake shore 
where child of the sky hides inside the oak 
and writes poems in alphabet he designed 
with blood of dragons on frail autumn leaves. 

Though she knows without a doubt in her heart 
that the child of the sky inside the oak 
is father of her mother she once met 
when he was old as the bent withered oak, 
so she tries to remember his true name 
but all she can think about his Hengist. 

Dark stranger on the shore calls out her name, 
inquiring if she might have any tears 
of wordless sorrow to sell for the cow, 
so she lays flower wreath on its large head 
and parades through town to Scarborough Fair 
where she was his true love who still lives there. 

If she gets trapped in the internet game 
transforming beauty from innocent tears, 
she might ask statue of Apollo how 
to find the street where angels fear to tread, 
then laughs because life has become absurd 
as computer code of the happy bird. 

Awake In Blue Rain

Awake In Blue Rain
© Surazeus
2026 02 15

Awake in blue rain of horrible hope, 
I whisper name of every soul who lived 
on every planet in our universe 
to keep alive brave spirit of their heart 
that gleams with first flash of the white-whole light 
which flashes bright in neurons of my brain. 

Awake in blue rain of innocent fear, 
I walk the endless maze of psychic myths 
to chat with idol of every dead god 
ever worshipped by tribes of hungry folk, 
who live reborn in children of their genes 
in tangled web of human families. 

Awake in blue rain of psychotic peace, 
I stand on ziggurat of the God Eye 
with compassion for every conscious soul 
who follows guiding star of their desire 
which weaves their fate with every choice they make 
to generate new life before they die. 

Awake in blue rain of arrogant faith, 
I host communal feast of loyal friends 
in grand cathedral of angelic love 
contrived from doctrine of demonic hate 
that binds our minds with world religious rites 
presenting heroes who succeed or fail. 

Awake in blue rain of marvelous mirth, 
I wear the shining mask of Lucifer 
to walk crowded cities of Zathamar 
with brilliant lamp of wise Diogenes 
while guiding refugees from civil wars 
across the waste land to new Wonderland. 

Awake in blue rain of frantic desire, 
I wield the lightning bolt of Jupiter 
to fight the tyrant who exploits the people 
and rescue Rapunzel from golden tower 
so she sells apples in the market place 
where Phoebus helps Justice manage world life. 

Awake in blue rain of pleasurable pain, 
I bear the holy grail of Guinevere, 
forged by hands of Jesus, the Fisher King, 
through incarnation of his first-born child, 
the star-eyed Mermaid with divine blue blood 
whose spirit animates my social hymn. 

Awake in blue rain of glamorous gloom, 
I strum the sacred lyre of Mercury 
and sing epic poem of philosophers 
who laid foundation of our world empire 
preserved in creed of Academia 
to build world view on truth, not fantasy. 

We Rebuild Our State

We Rebuild Our State
© Surazeus
2026 02 14

Once I break on through to the other side 
and dance in doorway of eternity, 
I float in blissful consciousness of pain 
as bright electric snow of spirit gain, 
then sing new world view for modernity 
that sparks pure laughter of our humble pride. 

She asks me where I live with river voice, 
so I build highways sea to shining sea 
that link all cities in vast maze of souls 
awake with joy of oscillating roles 
between vast emptiness of light we see 
because we weave our fate with every choice. 

We dwell in holy land of Zathamar 
with brave attention of community 
that we join hands and hearts with honest faith 
and guard our fellow citizens with ruth 
based firm on social opportunity 
despite dictatorship of Belshazzar. 

We float on ocean of one global mind 
with earnest wisdom of dynamic change 
encrypting dream code with fantastic tune 
to open wide perceptive door of soon 
through sudden renaissance of perfect strange 
contingent on weird contract Phoebus signed. 

Intrusive measurement of tethered light 
exposes romance of intense surprise 
we share while watching fearful castles fall 
at subtle psalm that chronicles weird call 
contrived to explicate our mirror eyes 
so we learn how to calculate the right. 

If we break free from arrogant dismay 
at serpent song of pine trees on the ridge, 
we might see Helios create the wheel 
in time to understand how we should feel 
while dancing on frail sorrow of the bridge 
that fools is into learning how to pray. 

Because doors of perception reveal truth 
recorded on gold scrolls by cosmic herald, 
our eyes perceive ideas forming things 
that channel energy through horcrux rings 
which we employ at stage we are imperiled 
to vote as president messiah sleuth. 

Confused by joke of ardent tragedy 
unspooling fortunes gambled for by time, 
we all unite our individual goals 
to guard our neighbors from aggressive trolls 
who earnestly repent of evil crime 
as we rebuild our state through comedy. 

Queen Juno Sospita

Queen Juno Sospita
© Surazeus
2026 02 14

Billions of voices whisper in the dark, 
expressing emotions that beat our hearts 
with wild atomic passion of desire 
to explain vision of the world we see, 
and how we hope to play our chosen role 
in global drama we create as fate. 

I try to hear what each voice has to say, 
to focus on conception of their mind 
beamed by descriptive stream of sentences 
so I may comprehend vision of truth 
that glows as virtual model of the world 
in pulsing framework of their fragile brain. 

Their individual voices, trickling bright 
as single rivulets of private thought 
that curl down verbal fields of mountain slopes, 
merge together in larger flow of dreams 
to blend in world view everybody shares 
till all our different views form one great sea. 

With deft hands trained by Muse of lyric voice 
I weave eight billion threads of conscious minds 
in global tapestry of human hope 
so all our special colors intertwined 
depict with honor Mother of Mankind 
embodied by Queen Juno Sospita. 

Our Savior Mother Queen with gleaming eyes, 
who wears goatskin cap with strength-curling horns, 
brandishes brass spear with emerald blade, 
and shakes long sun-drenched tresses with pizzaz 
while dancing on porch of her temple hall 
to melody that Phoebus strums with joy. 

Our many voices blend in one great cry 
that swells with brutal ecstasy of faith 
while we leap high toward Glow Cloud of respect 
through bold transfiguration of our souls 
from individuals desperate to survive 
to commune bonding with vision we share. 

I stand alone on cloud-veiled mountain peak, 
arms spread with joy as wings of Icarus 
to sing my truth with private voice of hope 
that channels voices of humanity 
so all conflicting dreams blend in one dream 
where every soul shares Earth as our great home. 

Because I disappear in teeming crowd 
and lose my self in vast humanity, 
I find my true self deep inside my heart 
designed by First Mother all humans share, 
for Juno Sospita wakes in us all, 
brothers and sisters on one turning world. 

Under Indifferent Stars

Under Indifferent Stars
© Surazeus
2026 02 14

Despite regret for how life has panned out, 
based on each strange choice he refused to make, 
half-blind Wagat limps on hot river shore 
to ask Willow Witch secret of true love, 
but her skeleton lies tangled in roots 
though her young ghost still shines bright in the sun. 

Squinting through half-blind eyes of lethargy, 
Wagat imagines in haze of despair 
that he sees three tall angels in white robes 
bearing swords of flame that glint in their hands 
as they float down from hot-air balloon disk 
and speak to him with celestial thoughts. 

Grumbling in his short guttural speech of fear, 
Wagat explains to divine messengers, 
who came down from glorious clouds of light, 
that his housemate Willow Witch died last month 
and her body dissolved in tangled roots, 
but her soul should dwell in the clouds with them. 

The tallest angel with long golden hair 
explains with ethereal voice of soft wind 
that chimes with sweetness of morning birdsong 
how the world of land and water was made 
by hand of Lightning Ghost in thunder clouds, 
or so Wagat imagines he might say. 

Gasping in shock as tall angels of light 
bind his body with thick harness like theirs, 
Wagat wriggles to escape as he shouts 
when they all ascend high above the field, 
and the willow tree shrinks small as a bush 
beside the broad river that sparkles blue. 

Peering up at vast blue sky of Glow Clouds, 
Wagat sees disk of the hot-air balloon 
shudder in sudden gusts of freezing wind, 
and he howls to see the great mountain peak 
that always loomed high where the sun-eye glows 
now jut below his feet as they drift past. 

Gasping for breath as he tries to stay calm, 
Wagat stares surprised at towers of stone 
that gleam on the cliff high above the sea, 
vast maze of streets full of people and carts 
which appear to him like ants in stream beds, 
till they land on plat of the pyramid. 

Trembling as he walks with angels in streets, 
Wagat hopes to meet his lost Willow Witch 
in halls of Heaven she told him about, 
but they teach him how to pull two-wheeled cart 
so he works each day taking trash away, 
then cries each night under indifferent stars. 

With Soul Of Helius

With Soul Of Helius
© Surazeus
2026 02 14

When sunlight at dawn glitters in my eye 
I rise from the Earth and walk in the sky. 
I wander the roadless plain by the sea 
and drift with the wind that wafts my soul free. 
The ocean tells me, wherever I roam 
I am not lost for my heart is my home. 

With warm glitter of sunlight in my heart 
I stride across the world without star chart. 
I gather apples in basket of hope 
from deep-rooted tree on the mountain slope. 
The mountain tells me, wherever I roam 
I am not lost for my heart is my home. 

I spark new fire in ashes of my dream 
and roast fish I catch from the flashing stream. 
I hum in harmony with the moon chime 
to measure constant flowing of breath time. 
The river tells me, wherever I roam 
I am not lost for my heart is my home. 

To mimic rolling circle of the sun 
I bend steamed wood into wheel of the dawn. 
With soul of Helius, my father, in me 
I journey in wagon toward the Great Tree. 
The Glow Cloud tells me, wherever I roam 
I am not lost for my heart is my home. 

Sinews Of Electric Words

Sinews Of Electric Words
© Surazeus
2026 02 13

She weaves references of angelic stones 
in tangled sinews of electric words 
beyond comprehension of mortal minds 
which sparkle with frozen sheen of brave rain 
so I may witness suffering of mankind 
in tales erased from archive of our hearts. 

Filled with shy conviction of earnest faith, 
she strides with rebellion of untamed song 
down pathway of unspeakable respect 
against foundational effort of hope 
to discipline her uncontrollable mind 
trapped in dire narrative of tragic love. 

Notching arrow of truth in bow of love, 
she fires intense trajectory of change 
across attentive hollow of lost time 
composed of history angels never share 
with borrowed words of honest travesty 
that threaten frail security of faith. 

Obsessive passion for relating truth, 
which should examine brutal hours of fear, 
writhes from locked archive of hungry hearts 
to crawl on wounded breast explicitly 
down centuries of manufactured lies, 
then lies in mystic ruins of half-burned books. 

Reductive code of illegible dreams 
still urges me to explore shadowed wood 
with twisted curiosity of tunes 
which unify disjointed claims of trees 
choosing to array both present and past 
through coexistence of ghosts in my brain. 

Inspired by stars she names with whispered voice, 
she chases echoes of misaligned thoughts, 
exposing lies of painters who despise 
false wholeness of virtual reality 
contrived to imitate national myths 
translating jokes from penitential cries. 

Hushed willows anchored in glow of weird eyes 
betray her safety with bold promises 
based on ruthless energy of contempt 
bound by urgent expectations we sell 
through coopted struggle of emptiness 
that leaves us stranded on cold roadless plain. 

Debased by facts of cruel modernity, 
our grandest university of truth 
decays from corporate comedy of greed 
though hearts beat rapidly with holy pride 
when anxious Orpheus pounds at the wall 
while chewing rotten alphabets of dreams. 

Limping Toward Heaven

Limping Toward Heaven
© Surazeus
2026 02 13

Reborn on Earth as Jesus Jupiter, 
assigned by Jove to guard the Holy Grail, 
I wear computer mask of Lucifer 
to play my role as prophet in Dream Tower 
who studies psychic riddle of Brain Flower 
while limping toward Heaven with Book of Ghosts. 

Still crazy after years of wandering woke 
on quest to find lost sword Excalibur, 
I give star-jeweled crown to Guinevere 
with pledge to maintain world democracy 
in holy crusade against tyranny 
while limping toward Heaven with Sword of Right. 

Awake from timeless dream as Sirius, 
startled by weird beauty of this strange world, 
I emerge from bottomless Well of Light 
to channel Sibyl Soul of Melusine 
so I can calculate when empires fall 
while limping toward Heaven with Scales of Truth. 

Alert with Wand of Zambor in my heart 
as Watcher in Tower of the God Eye, 
I find Rocket Boots that Charlemagne wore 
so I can fly with Wings of Icarus 
above sprawling cities of Zathamar 
while limping toward Heaven with Skull of God. 

Shocked by return of Satan on world stage 
disguised as presidents of super-states, 
I carry Lyre of Mercury with care 
to sing dire prophecies on city streets 
with Voice of Cassandra no one can hear 
while limping toward Heaven with Harp of Hope. 

Trained by Orpheus to lead refugees 
from war-torn lands to Elysian Fields, 
I ask shy Ophelia to marry me 
so she bakes large turkey and pumpkin pie 
when we celebrate Thanksgiving in Hell 
while limping toward Heaven with Horn of Fate. 

Reborn from Ishtar as Astarius, 
bright incarnation of the Morning Star, 
I rebuild Empire of Meroveus 
which I name for Mother Gothinia 
and rule from Fruit Garden of Scythia 
while limping toward Heaven with Bow of Faith. 

Planting apple seeds on lush river shores 
while riding Pegasus on Wings of Wind, 
I learn to build wheeled cart from Helius 
then drive west to Cave of Solaria 
with soul of Phoebus singing in my heart 
while limping toward Heaven through Maze of Myths.