They told me there was war in heaven,
two thrones, two kings,
light and shadow at war forever,
as if the Infinite could split its wings.

But I have heard a deeper thunder,
felt a fire with no shame.
The One they called “enemy”
whispered the Father’s name.

I’ve seen Him in the wrathful wind,
in lips of demon girls that moan,
in witches with their crow-eyed spells,
in silence deeper than the throne.

They say the serpent lies beneath,
but what if He is coiled there too?
What if the tree was not rebellion—
but the start of something true?

The Lord has no opponent.
Only masks He wears in fire.
Only mirrors in the desert
to burn away desire.

He tests Himself in every shadow,
fights His own reflection’s face,
then lifts the veil and shows the wound
was just another form of grace.

He is the flame and the devourer,
the blade, the wound, the balm.
He is the hand that strikes the temple
and the silence after the psalm.

So now I kiss what once I feared.
I listen when the daemons speak.
The throne was never split in two—
It cracked so love could leak.