God We Strive To Be

God We Strive To Be
© Surazeus
2026 09 19

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Embodied Monster Of Fear

Embodied Monster Of Fear
© Surazeus
2026 09 19

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Grand Temple Of Apollo

Grand Temple Of Apollo
© Surazeus
2026 09 19

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wander With Bohemian Heart

Wander With Bohemian Heart
© Surazeus
2026 09 19

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Atomic Flash Of Being

Atomic Flash Of Being
© Surazeus
2026 09 18

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Feast of Apple Hope

Feast of Apple Hope
© Surazeus
2026 09 18 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wordless Wind Of Why

Wordless Wind Of Why
© Surazeus
2026 09 18 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eyeless Clock Of Wisdom

Eyeless Clock Of Wisdom
© Surazeus
2026 09 17

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wheelbarrow Of Hard Work

Wheelbarrow Of Hard Work
© Surazeus
2026 09 17

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No Second Chance In Life

No Second Chance In Life
© Surazeus
2026 09 17

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Every God In Global Myths

Every God In Global Myths
© Surazeus
2026 09 16

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Judge Throne Of The Woke

Judge Throne Of The Woke
© Surazeus
2026 09 16

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Angels Of The Apple Moon

Angels Of The Apple Moon
© Surazeus
2026 09 16

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Whispering Neon Jellyfish

Whispering Neon Jellyfish
© Surazeus
2026 09 15

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Initiate Kintsugi-Weave

Initiate Kintsugi-Weave
© Surazeus
2026 09 15

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bodiless Gods Of Starlight

Bodiless Gods Of Starlight
© Surazeus
2026 09 15

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Death Smiles At People

Death Smiles At People
© Surazeus
2026 09 14

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Faceless Ghost Of Thought

Faceless Ghost Of Thought
© Surazeus
2026 09 14

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Global Nation Of Zarathia

Global Nation Of Zarathia
© Surazeus
2026 09 14

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Beauty Of Our Broken Things

Beauty Of Our Broken Things
© Surazeus
2026 09 13

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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