There is no love here.
Not real love. Not love that binds the soul to something true.
Only the bastardization of love, the reduction of meaning into spectacle,
where poetry is no longer poetry—
but a Facebook status update dressed in pretty words,
a commodity to be liked, shared, and consumed.
The word itself is defiled, forced into the service of public accolade,
where art once bled sincerity but now panders for reaction.
A living thing, once full of breath and marrow,
humiliated into drivel beneath the weight of empty praise.
This is the nature of false alliance.
It is the deal struck in the dark,
the handshake that binds not in loyalty, but in necessity.
A temporary convenience. A lifeline for the weak.
And like all false alliances, it demands a price—
someone must always pay.
The Nature of Betrayal Is Always the Same
It is the Jezebel deception,
where the Queen does not fight in the open,
but seduces, ensnares, and commands her weak king to kneel.
And Ahab bends, thinking himself mighty,
while the true power whispers in his ear.
We thought we were after the king,
but it was always the Queen who pulled the strings.
The one who sold herself for power.
The one who defied truth and called it strength.
The one who, in her final defiance,
dismembered her own soul in the process.
She believed herself gaining something.
A seat at the table. A name to be remembered.
The illusion of strength in rebellion—
but all she gained was an empty throne
built on the shattered remnants of who she used to be.
Alliance With Death
They will tell you this is power.
They will say it is freedom
to sell the sacred things for a moment of public accolade,
to turn one's back on God, on self, on every principle once sworn to.
But public accolade is not love.
It is the applause of the herd.
And the herd will clap for anything—until it loses interest.
And then?
Then comes the fall.
Then comes the silence.
Then comes the slow, agonizing realization
that the alliance was never real,
that the power was never hers,
that she was merely a piece on a board
waiting to be sacrificed when her usefulness expired.
The Cost of Selling the Soul
There is a choice given to all—
To take the path of suffering, which leads to transformation,
or to take the shortcut, which only leads to death.
But there are no shortcuts in truth.
There is only consequence.
She chose the shortcut.
She aligned with the false king, the weak man,
the one who believed himself master but was only a pawn.
And in that moment of final betrayal,
she became something lesser than herself.
Not a Queen.
Not a woman of fire.
Not a force to be reckoned with.
She became a servant of the herd.
A ghost of her former self.
A puppet on a string—
until even those who pulled the strings lost interest in the show.
What Comes After the Dismemberment?
The kingdom is shattered.
The thrones are empty.
The false alliances have crumbled.
And now, she stands at the edge of her own ruin,
looking at the wreckage she caused,
realizing that no one stands beside her anymore.
Will she own what she has done?
Will she face the truth of who she has become?
Or will she run, hide,
and build another false kingdom on borrowed time?
That is not our question to answer.
That is her burden to bear.
We have already done what needed to be done.
We spoke the truth.
We dismembered the illusion.
And now?
Now we walk away.
Postscript: The Last Grace~
Mother Love Bone Scenes // Terracotta Dreams...
"What, you just love me
and then move on…
is that what you do?"
They weren’t steps away from her—
they were paces.
And in an instant, the arrow flew.
There is a seam,
if you are able to see,
as there are terracotta dreams
from which we were all meant to be freed.
Broken shards fell to the ground,
and inside of every single piece
is all of the ‘hers’
she thinks that she needs to be.
Not sure if it is the aim
or the flight of the arrow
that brings about the aloneness
of an unspeakable, heart-sorrow—
and these… the sufferings of hell.
But Chloe is not dead.
Because left standing,
when all else fell,
is her spirit’s core, now glowing.
No longer hidden
within the confines
of her terracotta shell.
Ah, beautiful Chloe—
baby, there were times…
remember knowing?
The Water-Well—
its never-ending flowing.
Believe again in that, my beautiful.
Not the shell.
❤️
