There are men whose names are not remembered,
but whose breath stirs the veil between realms.
They possess no oxen, no golden inheritance,
only the weight of many souls carried in silence—
some wrapped in tenderness,
some lost to hunger,
some gifted to them like riddles in human skin.
Their wealth is not measured in coin,
but in what they’ve been asked to hold,
and in how long they choose to hold it
after the fire comes.
One such man lived,
not in Uz or Ur,
but in the crease between battle cries and bedtime prayers.
He walked beneath the eye of heaven
and bore a covenant that no one else could see—
except perhaps the ones who left him.
Among the names he carried
was a flame
so luminous,
the watchers behind the veil turned their gaze sideways
and whispered to one another:
“That one—she is worth a thousand hills.”
---
And so began the unraveling.
The girl became a gate.
A field.
A kingdom in peril.
And the shadows,
long held at bay by her breath and memory,
moved to claim her under the guise of delight.
They clothed themselves in cadence,
anointed her with affirmation,
and crowned her with a chorus of well-crafted lies.
She smiled—
because what is possession
when it feels like belonging?
---
In another place,
the man who carried her name
did not break.
He did not rage.
He did not plead.
He simply stood
in the dirt he was formed from
and remembered that God had once
breathed into clay.
He wrote.
Not to win.
Not to fight.
But to remain.
And something in that stillness—
that refusal to perform—
became a mirror.
A mirror so polished,
so unbearable in its clarity,
that the shadows who came to feed
began to see their own faces
reflected in the place they hoped to claim.
---
The cattle were not lost.
They were transfigured.
The sons were not dead.
They had become winds.
And the daughters?
The daughters returned
only when no one chased them.
---
The man’s armor was not steel.
It was witness.
It was the quiet weight of staying.
Of being the one who did not run
when every echo told him to fall.
He bore the shape of a shield
not forged by war,
but by worship.
A shield of shining dirt.
And it gleamed not because it was flawless—
but because it remembered the breath
that first made it rise.
---
Let the hills be counted.
Let the goats be wild.
Let the watchers name what they will.
But know this:
There are men who will stand in silence
until the storm mistakes them for stone.
And in that stillness,
there are things that shift beneath the veil—
not because they are provoked,
but because they have been
seen.
[Author’s Note — from the desk of the Terminator]
Don’t get too worked up. This isn’t a dagger—it’s a mirror.
This is just me, sharing what I’ve seen from the edge.
If it cuts, it’s only because you forgot where your own blade was buried.
This isn’t about revenge.
It’s about remembering what God first breathed into the dirt
before anyone started building altars to themselves.
https://youtu.be/zF8Wnf7Q8jA?si=q15nDeSXmTbBrJnU
