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.