I was made of sixes,
bones of ash and breath of dust,
a beast in temple’s clothing,
walking upright but dreaming low.

My blood remembered instinct,
my hands still knew the sword,
and my gut ruled with quiet fire
while the voice of God slept cold.

I was carbon,
the child of the earth’s hunger,
three sixes carved in silence
on the walls of my flesh.

But even beasts carry prophecy.

Even the serpent coils to rise.

For hidden in 6 + 6 + 6
is the silent scream of 9—
the final month,
the breath before birth,
the storm before flame.

And I, the beast,
began to burn.

My mind bowed.
My heart broke.
My body trembled.

And Spirit returned.

Not to **** the beast—
but to crown him.

To lift him from 666
to 777
to 3—
the trinity reborn in one man.

And I saw it:

The number was mine.
But so was the throne.