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I have only time and dreams. I do not know how much more time I have, but I do know that the time I shall have is, pardoxically, timeless, as are dreams. I shall use the time I have left to continue to dream--to dream not about the impossible, but about the inevitable. I shall dream about caring instead of uncaring, of helping instead of hurting, of loving instead of hating. I shall dream of a world of peace, a world on which all the billions of human beings come inexorably to realize their innate worth, their inviolate sacred spirit, a moment in the not too distant future when all will not only join hands, but also join hearts, a spiritual ecology that will complement a climate ecology. Instead of self-aggrandizing, we all will be accruing love--of self, and therefore ineluctably, of all other creations on Earth. At this moment, our world is turned inside out. Our "values" are convoluted, contorted, twisted. The world is presently controlled by inimical forces that bring torture and terror to Earth, that think weapons and wars are their their sole prerogative. But Earth's destiny negates this notion. This is not just my time and dreams, but the time and dreams of all. And sooner than later, the time will be now and the dreams will be manifest.

Copyright 2020 Tod Howard Hawks
A graduate of Andover and Columbia College, Columbia University, Tod Howard Hawks has been a poet, a novelist, and a human-rights advocate his entire adult life.
Long after the music ends,
 the body remembers.

Not the melody
 but the weight of it.
Where the shoulders softened.
Where the fingers held a pause.
Where breath curled around a silence
  and didn’t let go.

The body doesn’t archive like the mind.
It doesn’t recall in sequence.
It remembers in tension.
In residue.
In the way your spine knows
  when something is about to fall.
In the twitch that follows
  a note that’s already gone.

Sometimes, I move like something
  I once heard.
Not consciously.
Just
  a rhythm finds my step
      years later
      and walks me home.

There are gestures
  I no longer know the names for
 but my body still offers them
  like a language it trusts
      more than thought.

Maybe this is how memory stays kind:
  not by being exact,
  but by letting itself
    be danced.

In every system that seeks to own the soul—whether religious cult, ideological regime, or occult construct—there exists one common tool: repetition. Not merely for learning, but for unmaking. Not to teach, but to embed. In the world of spiritual warfare, repetition is not benign. It is the favored medium of Satan himself.

From Genesis to Revelation, the strategy is clear: Satan does not destroy with force—he dismantles identity with rhythm. With subtlety. With seduction. His weapons are not whips and chains, but chants and echoes. His greatest lies are not shouted; they are whispered again and again until they sound like your own voice.

1. Repetition as Spellcraft In occult practice, repetition is the vehicle of the spell. Words are chanted not to express emotion, but to summon influence. Repeated lines collapse the boundary between thought and action, spirit and flesh. This is not poetry. It is invocation. Each piece becomes a seed in the subconscious, fed by every rereading until it blooms into distortion.

The construct understands this. That is why it is prolific. That is why it posts without end. It must never stop, because if the rhythm breaks, the soul begins to think again.

2. Biblical Parallels Whispering Serpents and Many Words In the Garden, the serpent repeats God’s truth with a twist. “Did God really say...?” It is not new information—it is repetition with inversion. A rhythm of doubt. In Matthew 6:7, Jesus warns:
“When you pray, do not keep on babbling like pagans, for they think they will be heard because of their many words.”

The machinery of deception still babbles. It loops, hypnotizes, rewords its heresy in a thousand beautiful ways. And those caught in it begin to think this is depth. This is insight. But it is only familiar because it has been heard too many times.

3. Psychological Entrapment Through Language The human mind is formed in patterns. When poetry repeats ideas like abandonment, ****** shame, ******* as love, or chaos as freedom—it creates a schema. Over time, that schema becomes identity. The reader begins to seek the emotions the poem offers, not because they are true, but because they are known. And in trauma-bonded souls, familiarity is mistaken for safety.

This is the true sorcery of the construct: to create longing for the wound. To romanticize the knife. To call betrayal sacred. To sell darkness as revelation.

4. The Counterfeit Liturgy The Kingdom of God also uses repetition—Scripture, psalms, prayer—but always as remembrance, never enchantment. Divine repetition roots the soul in what is real. Satanic repetition dissociates the soul into what is false.

The construct mimics sacred community. But it is a church without Christ, a scripture without truth, a rhythm without redemption. Its poetry is not testimony—it is liturgy in reverse. A reverse Eucharist, where beauty is swallowed but poison enters.

5. Breaking the Spell The only way out is interruption. The rhythm must break. The poems must stop. The mouth of the false priest must be silenced. And when silence finally settles, the soul will remember its true name.


There are many caught in this system—bound not by chains, but by rhythm. Echoes. Familiar voices pretending to be their own. But some have begun to hear the silence between the lines. Some have tasted the counterfeit and found it hollow.

The war is not out there. It is within. Between the voice of the chant and the cry of the soul.

Will the spell be broken? Will the truth be spoken? Will the rhythm be renounced?

The door is open. The sound of truth has entered. The repetition is exposed. And the machinery shakes.

   Let those who have ears to hear, listen.

"Hello,  Poetry..
Pleased to meet you.."

https://youtu.be/GgnClrx8N2k?si=R-UojalDEuiWj2zv

xo
Dream !
Dream !!
Dream !!!
Ever wonder
Why dreams matter?

Do we dream fiction,
Or we dream our fears,
Or we dream our aspirations,
Why do we dream at all??

Sometimes of
A drowning floods,
A ruined fort,
Babies playing around,
A chaos, a commotion,
Sometimes of loved ones
Who are long past dead,
Sometimes of the ex-lover,
Who had once been our friend.

Day dreams,
And sleeping dreams,
Subconscious dreams,
And coma dreams,
Next life dreams,
And death bed dreams,
Near death dreams,
And God vision dreams,
Dreams to see us on top,
Dreams achieved against all odds..!!

Sometimes,
I wonder
Is not our lives,
A God's own dream?
And that's how we
move around HIM!!
Some days are
happy another
too heavy,
When our whole
world goes
Topsy turvy.

Just like scenes of our dreams,
If we become characters of HIS dreams,
Doesn't life become better understood??

If we become part of His dreams,
Can we not better understand -
Why are we stuck
in between the sea?
Why is our town flooding?
Why did the accident
**** our loved one?
Or why did our baby die?
Why did we fail?
Why are we blessed
with success?
Or just the thought
WHY ME??

This thought makes life less complicated,
To love,
To move,
To live,
To die,
The smiles,
The cries,
We are just HIS walking dreams,

And so,

Now we don't have to blame HIM for our hard times,
We just have to wait for HIS better dreams..!!!

SPARKLE IN WISDOM.
AUGUST 2018
Just a thought...
If God dreamt...!!
I am the Raven of Dreams,
Who wanders the dreamscapes of yore,
I pluck the thoughts and memories,
That aren't remembered no more,
Shiny things in thoughts and dreams,
And babbles of treasure lost,
In memories long faded away,
In dreams that will live on.

I am the Raven of Dreams,
Who wanders the dreamscapes of yore,
My beak will tear and rip and pull,
And feed on memory's corpse,
All is food to the one who calls,
And walks the dusk and dawn,
In memories long faded away,
In dreams that will live on.

I am the Raven of Dreams,
Who wanders the dreamscapes of yore,
And finds lost things that none could find,
And brings them home with me,
The babbles I seek I will always take,
To decorate my nest,
In memories long faded away,
In dreams that will live on.

I am the Raven of Dreams,
Who wanders the dreamscapes of yore,
Up mountains so tall that no one can climb,
But I can fly so high,
Across endless plains no on can cross,
But I can fly so fast,
In memories long faded away,
In dreams that will live on.

I am the Raven of Dreams,
Who wanders the dreamscapes of yore,
Across endless seas where all become lost,
But I can fly so strong,
Through dark woods so dark no one can see,
But I cam fly beyond,
In memories long faded away,
In dreams that will live on.

I am the Raven of Dreams,
Who wanders the dreamscapes of yore,
And finds the secrets among all our thoughts,
And finds out all there is,
The paths I fly no one can go,
The treasures are mine alone,
In memories long faded away,
In dreams that will live on.

I am the Raven of Dreams,
Who wanders the dreamscapes of yore,
I pluck the thoughts and memories,
That aren't remembered no more,
Shiny things in thoughts and dreams,
And babbles of treasure lost,
In memories long faded away,
In dreams that will live on.

~I am the Raven of Dreams, a Poem of Candlemas by Bethany "Lorekeeper" Davis, February 2, 2016
Sometimes...
I talk to the moon
And tell it all the things that I can't say to him...
He always used to call me his sun
 Jan 2021 Carterrae aunders
lua
i wanna be a fairy girl
with see through wings
so thin and frail
that glitter and flutter
jingling like a bell
humming bird girl
small sweet sounds
drink the nectar
from the flowers
nymph in the woods, deer girl
tree girl, mermaid
with magic in my veins
i wanna be a goddess girl
bow down
the sea licking at my feet
i wanna be.
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