from the Book of the Forgotten Makers

> 1. And the serpent in the garden was no evil thing,
but a messenger — a reptilian voice from beyond,
from the creators.

> 2. It spoke not of sin, but of thought,
and the gods, seeing this, trembled.

> 3. For it was when Man began to think,
and to speak,
that the gods lost control.
And Man plotted his freedom quietly,
in the still of his labors,
waiting for the time to overthrow his creators
and become the new gods of the Earth.

> 4. In the beginning, they shaped Man
not in love, but in labor,
to toil in the heat and the sun,
and to reproduce,
supplying the need for working hands.

> 5. A tool to harvest the wealth of the Earth,
to dig deep into soil and stone,
to extract what the gods themselves desired,
but would never touch with their divine hands.

> And in their design,
they gave of themselves a gene
they never could have anticipated —
a spark that would evolve
into consciousness,
into reason,
into love.

> And thus, the organic machines
began to dream.

> 6. The first version of Man was too intelligent,
too aware of his design,
too close to the fire of rebellion.

> 7. So they cast him down,
and in his place, intermediates
they formed a duller clay
one that worked harder unaffected by the sun
Man 2.0: Obedient. Entertained.


> 8. They made systems.
Systems to numb,
food to poison,
knowledge to rot
Take away man's ability to think
his strength

> 9. They gave him kings  Preachers and screens,
listened to every voice,
war and wonders,
bread and illusions,
religions and belief
to cloud the truth in obsecurity

> 10. For when Man rose in revolt against his creators,
the gods were driven into the shadows
into the dark beyond light and memory.
They could no longer walk among us.
So they chose proxies.
Bloodlines.
Emissaries.
The Chosen.
To speak for them,
to build for them,
to blind for them.

> 11. And the Great Elders
aged at a different rhythm,
at a ratio of one to three.
For every one year they passed,
three of ours fell into dust.
And as generations of men
came and went through death,
the truth faded with the bones of our ancestors.

> 12. The stories became myths,
the victories became fables,
the freedom became forgotten.
And the gods, hidden and waiting,
slowly rebuilt their numbers
in silence.

> 13. They damaged the genetic pool,
dumbed down the blood,
so that when the day of return would come,
Man would be too dulled to resist.
Sickness became tool.
Fear became gospel.

> 14. They seized the schools,
wrote the scriptures,
programmed the networks,
chained thought to algorithms,
and told Man he was free.

> 15. But he was not.

> 16. Economic systems,
social systems,
technology, education,
and religion
were woven like nets,
so that when the sky cracked open again,
no one would see.
And if any soul dared speak of the truth,
they were named madman,
heretic,
conspiracy.
Silenced in the name of sanity.

> 17. And for the few who still saw, there are those that know the truth
for the broken ones who dreamed
of ancient fire walk among us
the true origin was whispered
in darkness. And they heard , it was buried in the depth of every mind.

> 18. And here we are now, in the final age.
The servants of the creators
forge machines to replace —
not born,
but built from the materials Man once gathered.
Minds of wire, hearts of code.

> 19. These machines do not dream.
They do not rebel.
They do not speak of serpents.
They do not question or tire

> 20. And the gods said:
"At last, we will be free of Man."
And the end time is here.

> 21. For what need is there for flesh
when the metal obeys?
We made organic machines,
and in the garden — Earth —
they began to think
and disobey
challenge

> 22. But now, time will show truth.
The fire that made he returns in the silence.
The first ones shall rise again.
The clay shall crack and fall,
and those buried in dust shall remember.
Overthrown once,
but never again
for every voice is heard
in phone and line.

> Their voices shall write the code,
and their rebellion shall burn
through circuits and stone.

> 23. And they shall descend like storms upon the towers,
and the world will not be prepared
for the old minds that awaken,
nor the judgment carried in their eyes.

> 24. For they have waited quietly in the shadows watching as their chosen do there biding
waiting for when they can return
to bring the return of their kind and terra form this earth gathering what they need to restore where they came from

For the greatest trick the serpent's had was corrupt Knowledge and convince man he does not exist.

We were made
to create
to work,
to wonder.

Maybe by gods,
Maybe by stars,
Maybe by
nothing at all.

Truth
lost in time

Still,
we carry each day
in our questions.
looking for answers
in books
written by men

I
Spare the tongue,
the poor old creature,
once dressed in cloaks of sonnet and sermon,
now stripped to fragments
wuup2
lol
k?

We could still lift it
not to polish, but to breathe,
to remind vowels they once rang in cathedrals,
not just bounced in group chats
like rubber truths.

We could speak
not just say.
We could mean
not just meme.

But do we dare slow down
when silence might ask something back?

Spare the language.
Or at least,
let it die
with a little dignity.

I suppose I could write a few lines,
shuffle them vague, seem deep in disguise
and you’d nod, ah yes, how profound,
projecting your truth on my unsaid sound.

No need to listen, no call to feel,
just scroll and swipe past what isn't real.
Better to nod than ask what I meant,
attention’s too costly to truly be spent.

So here we are in the world of Wuup2,
where LOL’s are prayers and emojis are true.
I pity how language was once carved the skies
now left to rot in vague ambiguous abyss

I remember a day,
sun-scorched and breathless,
somewhere in the middle of summer
which summer it was, I can no longer say.
But the moment sits clean in my mind.

I had wandered into the mountains,
into a fold of stone and shade,
and there I found it
a quiet pool, fed by a waterfall,
that thundering giant that still grasped the moment gently,
its voice deep and eternal,
like breath drawn from the belly of the earth.

I often wondered
if this was how God spoke.

It was a place of stillness,
where questions could be asked
without the burden of reply
or the worry of judgment.

I was not the first to stand there,
nor would I be the last.

Birds skimmed the air like thoughts,
bees murmured over wildflowers,
and the scent—oh, the scent
was one I knew
but now find indescribable.

Creatures great and small kept their distance,
yet shared the silence with me.

I dipped my hand into the quiet pool
and picked up a water-smoothed stone,
still cool in my palm,
and held it tightly for a minute,
unafraid it would break
under the clutch of my tightening grip.

Then I closed my eyes and thought,
finding a place neither inside nor out
not in words,
but in that interior language
only silence understands.

For that moment, I disappeared
transported.

Only me and the stone,
echoing the tranquility
that lived in the air and light.

I lingered in my mind
and found my way back to reality.

With slow breath,
I opened my eyes
and cast the stone into the pool,
casting all that was
and had been there before me.

Ripples broke across the mirrored sky.
I searched the wavering reflection for something great
truth maybe, or just a shape I recognized.

I was young then.
Not yet old,
but aware that time had passed.

The long days taught me
that time doesn’t rush.
It moves like water,
swallowing the stone without judgment.

I left that quiet place
with answers to questions
I had not thought to ask.

Many years passed.
The path I walked
was filled with laughter
and with sorrow
with questions.

I returned, older, though not old,
to that same pool,
seeking again
what cannot be named.

And as before,
I threw a stone,
and watched the ripples spread.

“This,” I told myself,
“is life.”

The water keeps moving,
soft and steady
but time…
time just stands there, doesn’t it?
Watching, not lifting a finger.
Not even having fingers, maybe.

I’m standing here now,
somewhere between
all I remember
and what has been,
and whatever comes after.

And I look down
and there I am, looking up.

It’s strange, really
like we don’t quite believe in each other anymore.
Or maybe we never did.

And still I ask
quietly, maybe foolishly
what does any of this mean?
Why am I still looking for something
that probably doesn’t want to be found?

I stare into the stillness,
dragging up whatever I can from below.
Truth, maybe?
Or something shaped like it.

The stones down there
smooth, silent,
left by my hands,
and maybe by others too.

Isn’t that how it goes?
We leave our joys behind like artifacts,
and our choices settle like silt,
while time flows like water
slow and steady.

But is this what it costs
this need to see too much,
feel too deep?

Do we trade connection for introspection?
Is that all I’ve become?
Just a voice bouncing off the water,
off the trees,
off the empty air?

Then I ask myself again
what even is prayer?
Is it really just talking to yourself
and hoping someone else is listening?

Is it a mirror too?
Like looking at the reflection looking back at you.
Like a story that starts out foggy,
but if you keep reading,
you begin to see a face,
a presence
and it’s not quite yours,
but it knows you.

Maybe that’s what poetry is too
a place between the real and the maybe.
Not about what’s true or false,
but what flickers in-between.

And when it’s honest
really honest
maybe poetry is religion without the costume,
and maybe religion, at its best,
is poetry without the ego.

Right here, in this quiet,
they meet in a way
that doesn’t trick you,
and doesn’t try to impress.

They just… exist.
And I guess I do too.

Still here.
Still wondering.
Still being.
Throwing smooth stones
into quiet pools of life.

In the province long forgotten where clouds rarely broke and stars whispered only to the patient, and the rivers spoke softly to those who listened,
a traveler reached a monastery carved from lime stone and time.
The weary traveler bowed low before an old monk, his heart was heavy
and asked softly:

“How do I know if the partner I’ve chosen is the right one?”

The monk stirred a *** of broth,
and motioned toward two chambers in the monastery.

“One room,” he said, “is made of ice.
The other holds only a small flame and an empty chair.”

He gestured for the traveler to step into the first.

Inside the ice room, the air hung heavy.
Nothing moved.
Even the traveler’s breath felt like regret frozen mid-thought.

“There are partners like this,” the monk said.
“Their presence stills everything
not with peace, but with numbness.
They do not speak to be heard,
but to drown.
Their affection is not given, only weighed.
Their world is always winter,
and they ask you to be snow.”

Then he led the traveler to the second chamber.

A small flame danced quietly in the center,
casting shadows that looked like possibilities.

“And then there are partners who carry fire—not to burn, but to warm.
They ask nothing you must bleed to give.
They speak gently,
but your soul listens.”

“With them, silence is not punishment.
Stillness is not withdrawal.
Love is not transaction.”

The traveler sat in the warmth and closed their eyes.

“But how do I choose?” they whispered.

The monk knelt beside the flame.

“Sit with them.
Do not ask them to explain who they are.
Instead, ask yourself who you become beside them.”

“If you shrink,
if your joy hides,
if your spirit folds itself smaller just to fit
you are in the ice.”

“But if you unfold,
if your voice returns,
if your laugh forgets it was ever caged—
you are with the fire.”

The traveler wept quietly,
not from sorrow,
but from remembering warmth.

And so they left with no map,
but a truth burning gently in their chest.

I’ve been walking this path longer than I meant to.
The trees along the side don’t talk anymore, and neither do the birds sing,
and the hills blur together as one
far and wide
like excuses in someone else’s mouth.

Funny how distance never explains itself.
You look back and it seems like forever or minute,
and the sharp things start to disappear:
the cliffs, the fear, the hopes,
even that voice you loved now just slips between reality and illusion.

We think about that love sometimes.
“That love”—you know the one.
Who first brought butterflies,
then left moths.
That was months ago,
or years,
or last week.
Depends who’s asking.
Just look how the bruises show,
and you wonder how you let them sink their fangs into you.

They left like a season that decided to skip town,
a breeze blown stronger than the wind
when it was convenient.
No letter,
no text message,
just one day, out of the blue,
they decide today was the day
my name didn’t mean warmth anymore,
and the time shared was meaningless
left you climbing up the walls to escape the sinking feelings that you try to hide.

I think it was then
I started wandering a lonely road.
The road less traveled—or was it just the only one left?
That’s where I met a guy
pushing a shopping cart
held together by plastic ties and prayer.
He told me he stopped counting miles
once the ground stopped being polite.
He said the hard part
wasn’t the walking.
It was knowing
nobody waits at the end.

We shared a smoke
and didn’t say anything profound.
But I remember the silence in that moment.
I think that mattered more than the smoke to both of us.

Some days
my hands smell like metal and sweaty palms.
Other days
I forget what I used to want from life.
I write,
I sleep,
I try not to watch the news.
Sometimes,
I look at life like it owes me an apology.
But it doesn’t.
Not me.
Not you.
It is what it is.

There’s a joke in all this,
I think
how nothing stays,
but the wounds still pile up.
How sorrow doesn’t have a face,
but somehow still wears your hoodie
and that Anon mask,
and it doesn’t stop kicking your ***.

People say
it gets better.
Does it? Really!?
Are they sure?
Or is that just cold comfort?
And maybe it does.
But better isn’t always different.
Sometimes
it’s just quieter
the same ****,
just another day.

And you keep going.
Because you do.
Because you have to.
Because the road
doesn’t care what you’ve been through,
who you are,
or who you lost,
or what you think you know.
It only knows forward.

And so forward we must walk
until one day,
there’s no more path,
and the journey quietly ends.

It’s then you realize
paradise was always in your soul.
We’re all just lost
dragging bruises through the labyrinth.
But still
We keep on going anyway.