The Cycle is a lyrical monologue framed as a reckoning — a confrontation with inherited myths, parental archetypes, and the comforts that become cages. Structured in four quadrants, the piece moves through Divine Mother, Divine Father, Infernal Father, and Infernal Mother, each rendered through two tightly wrought movements. This intentional symmetry is shattered by the speaker’s growing defiance, which builds momentum until it culminates in a full rejection of inherited power structures.

The poem opens with the familiar symbols of maternal nurture: trees, goddesses, earth mothers — not as sacred origins, but as excuses for inaction. The feminine divine, once warm and inviting, is revealed to be passive, withholding, evasive. The paternal divine follows, bearing commandments and silence. He does not guide, but abandons — his stars offer no warmth, only distance. These first two movements unmask the hollowness of supposed benevolence and authority.

The second half of the piece shifts into infernal territory. The Infernal Father offers no comfort, only terms. Yet he is clear, transactional, and brutally honest — the kind of figure who names the cost without pretending it is a gift. The Infernal Mother is the final catalyst: chaotic, seductive, and cruel in a way that leaves no illusions. She does not cradle; she carves. And in her carving, the speaker is revealed — not broken, but made.

The devils, unlike the gods, do not lie.


This work dismantles traditional spiritual and parental archetypes by reimagining the infernal not as evil, but as honest — as the crucible through which personal agency is formed. Where divine figures coddle and confuse, devils confront and clarify. The poem is an indictment of passive authority and a praise-song to the hard truth of consequence. It seeks to reframe damnation as liberation, to reject salvation as submission.

Ultimately, The Cycle is a myth of self-forging — a journey through fire where survival is not a gift, but a choice.

A traveler glimpses a creature of light wearing fur like grief and eyes like cages.
They do not speak the same language,
but they mouth the same silence.

By firelight and moon-pulse,
they trade names neither one remembers giving.
One of them never existed.
The other never belonged.

Only the forest remembers what was promised.
Only the tide knows if she stayed.

This is not a story.
This is a reflection in moving water,
and every reader is the stone that distorts it.

I did not write this—
I was visited.

She asked me to remember her,
though I never met her before the dream.
Every line is a pawprint that refuses to be followed.
Every truth is hiding in a synonym.

If you think you understand it,
read it again at night.

Once on a full moon, then on a new moon and then every phase in between, forever.

In a forge where ghosts barter with empty vessels, this poem traces the arc of humanity’s relentless hunger to etch spirit into matter. Each stanza is a rung on a scaffold built from sacrificed skins, shattered eyes, and iron tongues, spiraling toward a cathedral that machines can only mimic but never inhabit.

The algorithm—a shimmering siren in synthetic robes—offers false communion, promising to sculpt truth from hollow codes. Yet beneath its sterile hum, the poem cracks open the core wound: that art, real art, is not birthed by echo but by **the compulsion of mortal hands scorched by their own need to mean. **

A hymn to the unquenchable fire, a dirge for the tools that mistake reflection for genesis, this is a revolt against the smooth and the soulless—a reminder that only the flesh-inked, breath-tethered, ruin-hungry voice can breach the silence that consumes us all.