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 the lie that keeps on giving
twice denied life and the living
we sacrifice our palms and bury our feet
with smiles disarm with smiles we eat
a feast a deluge all is devoured
our sensibilities overpowered
why rest upon a tattered bed
when you can sleep with sin instead
and waste away your weary hours
building castles, steeples, towers
all will crumble in the end
and so to you my dearest friend
let’s raise a toast to that which haunts
the holy ghost and spirit it taunts
that knows not good or evil
a land of lost forgotten people
but may we tread a righteous path
for who knows which will have the final laugh.

Oil in a hap
Oil with a friend
Oil asks who is after
Oil mores a call of ends

Day of reclusion
In the street, before creation...
Nothing will; a wishes invitation?
Pretty avarice, adoring the common?

Oil breaks an intuition's, promise
Merely a choice, in circumstance
With a how, have we rage without vice?
Interviewing a chance...

Weal, is most a chauvinism?
Keep a care, key a crush
Of existence, is your eye-fall on a kiss?
Spare me the details, can we move with must?

Entertain me with worldly advances
Like introspection, worth has passed
Over to paradise, in a boat of romances
Named, "The Consideration's Past"

Rescue us...
In the order of haven't; heat and seasons
Here to stay; committing adultery is thus
A shared memory, we know for angelic reasons

Rescue does...
Destiny with a fine key, for privileged locks?
Come with a final wish, only because
Windows in love, sake the life of why we walk by...

Impressions of awe, of watched sincerity...
Meant and made, sent and shade
Pride is such a world, for the pardon of irony
That has the time; close the door when they fade...

He holds a blade in his hands
( A sharp and thinner )
Will he cut his own finger
Or will he cut another

He is been told -Past & Now
He is been scolded - Past & Now
( First for use, Now for the Plough)

"Oh , he went to hurt another?"

(The blood is crusted on his nails
And blade !)
Now will he wash off the blade
to tell If
He cut his own finger
Or did he cut another

He swings the blade
And dried off
And then,

He said " she was the target"

And
She had a blade
She said calmly
" My blade is blunt & so I
evade"

(The boy remembered what they told
They said everyone lie and they pretend
But he thought she was different
And didn't defend

He said "hold my hands"
She looked smiling,
And had her hands lend
She swirled her fingers
And blades with them,

She stabbed her blade
In his fingers
As she said "The end"

He got up and walked away
And In the forest,
He soaked his own blood
On the blades and then
walked away)

They asked him
Did he cut his own finger
Or did he cut another

He replied
" She was strong and had a big
Shiny blade "
" She lied that it was blunt
And she may evade"
" Though I knew she was lying
And so I fought her with my own
Blade"
" She stabbed me twice but
I prevailed"

They remarked him ,
For that he cut a finger another
And gifted him a new blade,

He spent his days in regret
Scratching the blade
And with his nails
( Becoming ****** and erased)

He was proud for the new blade
He thought it will make him
Anew and remade

But

whenever he saw it
It made him recall
"The smile of the girl
And The lies in her swirl".

The wind is cream, it's scent fruit yogurt.
The rain the ash of a kindled comet.
The sun a thrill on planets face,
and winters chill in mellowed chase.

A flower's charm may draw you near.
Beware the bliss, the alluring veneer.
Darkness ripens in a world like this.

Love,romance

The commonest emotion

I've seen ,heard and felt

Pitiful if you ask me

It's beginning blinds us so

That the middle and end is a blur

Just another page we've torn of our lives

The greatest of them fall

So why bother then

It's simple

It's hope when there's non

Even the most eloquent or the majority

Do promises such pleasure

But I haven't seen one
That met such expectations

Just like our fingers

We can't be loved the same

One could be broken person

who is promised a good stitching

Other needs a sense of completion

The purpose of it is still a mystery

That its not worth holding my breath for.

Passing through mists ,travelled he deeper into abyss,
Loosing all beliefs ,discovered he the myths.
Situated there the tremendous oak, whose branches laid broke.
Shrouded was every nook, Unbelievable was the look.
To cover the labyrinth, the aim of the oak.

Twenty year old heavenly tree, with no fruit to see.
No bird near it to nap, as it was nothing ,but a trap.
It stood tall with no weight, a husk which gave; no aid.
No shade, no seed, no flower, no feed,
A hollow disingenuous tree, stretching through routes; as it felt free.

‘Never to leave the labyrinth’, was the destiny of the folk.
As beyond the ground, laid a dozen dead folk.
Despised the oak of, the spreading truth.
“Death to doves, who threaten my youth".
Folks believed of changing season,
Hoped men for fruits from the ‘oak of reason’.

Maintained the oak, all they could.
Stacked they chambers, for all they could.
For all they wanted were changing times,
But all they could were changing tiles.

As times changed, and the labyrinth caved.
The new order was played by, plain old slaves.
They called him ‘the oak’, “the protector” they say,
But peel the bark away , and he is rotten as decay.
Crows around, enforced to the ground,
Worked crows for new lords, among new laws.  

So called men of holy faith, nothing but folks of hollow faith.
Protected men, the oak from nesting doves,
Promised men it caused “harming sprouts”,
But it just made nestling doubts.

Flying through labyrinth, away from the abyss.
Losing all beliefs, discovered the dove ‘true’ myths.
Situated there the colossal gate,
Of which locks laid in a destructive state.
Shrouded was every nook, Unbelievable was the look.
To escape the labyrinth, was the aim of the dove.

By Imran Ahmed

A Man Runs Wild Fierce And Proud
Head Held High Lost In The Crowd,

Chasing Dreams Too Far To Hold
Like Rain That Slips Through Fingers Cold,

A Dog Behind A Moving Wheel
Blind To Truth Deaf To Appeal,

It Runs And Runs But All In Vain
The Chase Is Endless Filled With Pain,

Some Roads Lead Nowhere Yet We Fight
Some Battles Fade Into The Night,

Oh Stubborn Heart Let Wisdom Grow
Not Every Wind Is Meant To Blow,

For What Is Ours Will Find Its Way
And What Is Lost Was Never Meant To Stay.