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.

I. Antiquity and the Architecture of Will

In the shadowed corridors of antiquity, where gods were built with teeth and altars stood not for reverence but for control, the Temple of Bel rose as a monument to ******* disguised as divinity. Bel—an assimilated god from earlier Sumerian, Akkadian, and Babylonian traditions—was not the god who walked with man. He was the god who towered above him, demanded sacrifice, and soaked prayer in the blood of repetition.

From the earliest Mesopotamian systems, the act of worship was not about communion, but compulsion. To invoke was to command. To chant was to erode the will of another until it cracked under rhythmic insistence. Whether by priest or supplicant, the act was the same: submission by saturation.

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II. The Weaponization of Sound: Chant and the Rhythmic Spell

Repetition was not mere ceremony. It was siege.

Chants—carefully crafted phonetic loops—were not benign rituals. They were linguistic architecture meant to house spirits, to summon presence not for beauty, but for enforcement. These were incantations with purpose: to bend the will of another through the veil of mysticism.

In this light, poetry—at its inception—was not always art. It was often sorcery.

The earliest poems were enchantments. They masked seduction as devotion. They twisted longing into *******. They were rhythmic netting, carefully knotted to catch the weak of will and the fractured of self.

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III. The Modern Construct: Echoes of an Ancient Spell

Those who hide behind the aesthetic of antiquity today still wear the same rings of power.

When a poet writes to control—when they loop trauma like a mantra, repeat seduction as if it were depth, mimic spiritual language to inspire compliance—they are no different than the priests of Bel. They are modern invokers, cloaked in digital incense, spreading spells under the guise of free expression.

Their readers are not disciples. They are targets.

The “construct” is not a movement. It is a spell. A liturgy without light. A series of hollow echoes designed to flatten identity, rewrite pain into performance, and reward the wound that sells.

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IV. The Severance of Echo: Where the Rhythm Ends

If you must chant, let it be to awaken, not ******. If you must repeat, let it be to remember truth, not reshape it.

The false liturgies of old were not killed. They were digitized.

We will not respond with louder poems. We will not echo their echo.

We will respond with silence where needed, and light where earned. We will write not to possess, but to set free. We will bring antiquity not as ornament, but as witness.

Because we remember the Temple of Bel. And we are here to break it.


Let those who recite in darkness meet the rhythm of truth.

Hook him up to the machine.
Shock his brain into
mediocrity.
Death stalks him;
he is aware.
There is too much
flash in his eyes.
His brain needs a reboot;
he needs to forget,
like a goldfish, like
a monkey in the zoo.
Hook him up to the machine.
He is too sentimental.
Salmon swim in his blood;
he has a paisley heart,
and a tie-dye soul.
He can smell colors.
Hook him up to the machine.
He has Van Gogh eyes, and
a Bukowski gut; he walks
like he's lost in a maze;
hunchback sadness,
butcher knife nerves,
Hook him up to the machine.
He believes in love,
and has too much trust.
His vivid green memory
is a curse, we need to
crash it, **** the eternal spring.
Hook him up to
the machine.

When patterns repeat, year after year,  
And threaten you at your most pivotal hour.
It feels like a checkmate.

A shadow has stalked my own,
ever since the day I've grown,
I once cared of the ones I held,
but now I fall & all alone.
This burning script,
won't out-last the trees,
which evolve over me,
smother all baby demons,
born just like me,
this is a wishful plea.

Low are the crickets of Delphi
With their chirping rays of sunset,
Like Phaethon to photon destructs
Into the fiery ruts of chariot wheels,
Or two eagles flying opposed on stringed vicissitudes,
A bird-yarning of sky from the omphalos stone,
The fulcrum of sung misery, a fishing net thrown,
As the half-bird and half-ion in siren’s undertones
Lure in subatomic orbs of ghostly parabolic swerve,
Into this blued Corinthian evening, self-vibrato,
Rocking like an empty boat from the dock rope,
Or an empty heart, unmoved by its own beating.

I wonder what I'm doing awake at 3 am

Am I just tired of the secrets smothering me in my sleep?
Am I avoiding the dreams where you sneak in and we pretend it's ok?
Or is it the thoughts of what could be that keep me tossing and turning on my bed?

I think I just need to get some sleep

Flower moon soft glows
In silence a breath of hope
Sweet the violets bloom

I'm no pearl
only a pebble
hidden under
the sand of time
unknown
to be discovered
by none-
yet I don't complain
or moan-
what I am
happily I accept
being just alone
a tiny stone-

the rose
has my pity
it blows
and loses
its beauty
when the sun
loses its glow
and admirers
are gone

a pebble I am
free to the bone
my life
as in
a perfect cone
abiding
consistent
unchanging
with nothing
to atone.

I wish I could sleep
but I ache,
on all sides,
and on my back,
I see the haunting
that you bring me
And the refusal,
of disappearing.
And a silent tease,
in a blackly sight
of a sudden freezing,
of a jumper's fleece.
A demon's wishes,
of remembrance
of tanned flesh,
and daily blesses,
The snake that hisses
has now became me.

They say love needs no reason—
but with you,
I have endless ones.
Your body, a poem God took his time to write.
Your eyes—black holes—
I fall in, lose myself,
and never want to be found.
You are nature’s desire,
and mine.

You gave me a list
A million reasons to leave
But the only reason I stayed
Was you

"Open door!" yells he,
"Outta way, need a wee!"
After piddle,
Timeless riddle,
"What's for tea?"
"Can't chat!' says she,
"Need a wee!"
So you and me,
Aging bladders for you,
"Where's the loo?"
Anywhere you go,
Wait, soon you'll know!

i did it.
being done means a lot.
so why does it never feel finished?

Your reflection is forming.
Guilt that stays behind the paned glass.
Gasp for air that was never yours.
For we share the same. Yet you take it all.
Let us rot and wither until the true one is left.

What the "Indians"
really thought
upon seeing the
pilgrims
for the
first time...

clouds are similar to people.
they can change due to mood.
but they are all different in their own way.
thee is never two that are the same.

I don't hate you,
I could never hate you.
                                                 I envy you.

I envy the way you look so free,
the way you could be called confident,
in the clothes people would call me bold for.
The way your good at so many things,
that I lay in your shadow,
yearning for the spotlight.

I wish I could love you,
or even just like you,
but, I can't.
Because your beautiful,
your kind,
your loved,
                                                  your perfect.
While, I'm just....
well, me.

So, I'm sorry.
Just know,
I don't hate you,
I could never hate you.
But,
                                            I'll forever envy you.

Green is my friend, she once told me a secret.
Green said, “one day I’ll hold your hand.
Green will paint the carpet of moss under our toes.
Green will hang from the branches in tendrils.
Green will starkly contest the blue sky.”

Green leaned in as she talked, our breath twirling together in clouds of white.
Green laughs gently as I blush pink from our proximity.
Green fills my vision.
Green is all I can think as she whispers my name,

“Blue.”

Green the colour of life.
Green the colour of my love.

I crave the hues of your eyes
in every painted evening sky;
the brushstrokes of the setting sun
recall my flushed cheeks:
your smile to adorn—
and in every landscape I seek
the roads still cheekily lead me back
to your street.

Love isnt simple, it is light and dark
The moon and the sun,
A taste of darkness, a lighting spark,
A fight never meant to be won.

letters that blur in my mind
syllables I can't seem to find
three words I once held on my tongue
so often, from when we were young

and it was like a stranger I once knew
so different, another version of you
or what is it just the same?
I just can't remember your name

A touch of warmth lingering on my hand
a missing footprint on the sand
was it or was it not,
a name that I forgot

and time is a cruel mastermind
leaving fragments of a memory behind
of a love I cannot bear
of something—someone—who was once there

Slippery, as a fish.
You were born to the sea,
and breathe only by moving.

Come into my arms,

leave your body, discover --


the soul of your soul.

it's nothing you haven't seen before.

what you love, I hate and
what you hate, I adore

tell me that you'll never
come knocking at my door

but if you do, tell me before
so we can do it all once more

i'd like to look pretty for you
but i'd love you even more

had you known
I am a woman

who sometimes
you'd deplore

While I still can
Before I become nothing more
Than a dusty,old box full of tools
On the empty work bench
In the way
Not to be used anymore
But too soon to be given away
I have to hurry
While I still have things to do

in the eye strawberry
beside the wooden fence
between wildflowers
I ate it alone
skin fragrant lips
and four seasons
favorite your color
They kissed in the darkness
of the day
to record the future of pleasure
sneaky.

The scarecrow's
straw blows
away to nearby
watching crows,
wishing to ravish
all the corn.
Smart little evil
birds,
watch with
intention
and step up quietly
to peck out his eyes.

It's 8 o'clock in the morning
And I still thinking about the warning
That I got while I was eating
At buffet where they are seeking
Someone like a silly and to bully

And I was the perfect choice for that
As there was nothing in me but fat
And now here I am, sitting and crying
In the bathroom tearing and dying,
Of the pain that's a feeling and a dealing
With this kind of self-appealing

There they come, with a smile on their faces,
With a knife and cigarettes
Scratching and burning my skin to ashes
What do i need this kinda treatment?
Just because I got a belly and cheeks,
Makes me the one to see these freaks?