There is a hush
that opens behind the hush,
where breath is no longer
taken in,
but given.

A mouth made
only for receiving—
not food,
not air—
but something finer
than sound.

It happens in the stillness
between moments,
when hope ceases
to lean forward
and simply
arrives.

There,
behind the chest
and deeper still,
are lungs
that do not breathe
until spirit finds them.

They do not swell
for want—
only for wonder.

Somewhere in the unseen,
the Breath of God
hovers.

And the lungs—
those deeper ones—
wait with necks craned
like mystics beneath
an unseen window,
opened only
by grace.

Not every wind is of earth.
Some are shaped
to fill the holy hollows
in a soul made ready—
a mist that sings
without voice,
without name.

And when it comes,
you do not speak.
You expand.

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.

She does not speak aloud, not here. This is the place where silence answers back. The grass moves like water— ripples of praise without a mouth, but full of memory.

She walks barefoot, open-palmed, hands lifted in the hush of morning light, not for ritual, not for prayer, but because that is the posture her soul has always longed for.

The wind does not resist her here. It circles her ribs and says,
  "You are not here to carry anything anymore."

And so she dances, not to forget, but to remember rightly.

Each step a release. Each breath, a forgiveness. Each turn, a letting-go of a thousand unspoken inheritances she never asked to receive.

The grass bows gently as she moves— to the child she was, to the woman she became, to the fierce stillness that remained when the world could not hold her.

Then he comes— not a man, but something older, truer. A horse, many hands tall, his mane braided by wind, his coat the color of evening stone.

He does not run. He simply appears, like a truth that was always waiting just beyond the edge of what she dared to hope for.

He lowers his head, presses his warm forehead against her tear-washed cheek, and something ancient inside her quiets.

She does not ride him. She walks beside him, her fingers woven into his mane, like roots learning the shape of soil for the first time.

And she knows— this is what safety feels like. Not absence of pain, but presence of witness.

Not every love needs to break you to be real. Some love simply comes when you're ready to remember your own name.

The grasslands will remain. But now, they echo with her laughter. And the wind—

it carries her name like a hymn that never forgot how to rise.

The mountains do not flinch
at what the world has done.
They hold their silence
in granite outcroppings—
scarred, still,
older than sorrow,
yet never indifferent to it.

She came to the ridge
where the cold wind weaves
between trees older than memory.
It touched her like a voice—
not kind,
not cruel,
just knowing.

And that knowing
wrapped around her ribs
like a truth she never chose to carry.

She stood beneath the pines,
her face turned to sky,
and the weight of it all
finally broke through—
tears carving warmth
into cheeks too long hardened.

Then her head
pressed to my chest—
as if to ask
if anything was strong enough
to stay.

And I knew.
I was built for this.
To stand right here.
To hold what broke her
and not let it fall further.

The wind moved on—
but something stayed:
a stillness
a hush

a warmth in the marrow
of what had once been frozen.


Not every wind will cut so cold.
Not every ache will hold.
And not everything un-beautiful
was meant to remain that way.

Tomorrow, the trees will still be here.
And the creek will still run clear.
But so will she—
with something inside
that now knows:

even the wounded
can become
the most beautiful thing
the mountains have ever seen.

Cada 15 es un recordatorio;
Para que los recuerdos sean recordados;
Para que las oraciones sean murmuradas;
Y para que el amor quede enterrado en las brasas.

There are paths you don’t choose
but find yourself on,
waking one day to realize
you’ve left the voice that once
called you home.

There are people—
beautiful, bruised,
who touched the hem of healing

and stepped back

as if love would demand too much.

And I wonder how God handles
the slow disaster
of the almost-return.
The ones who knew,
who felt,
who started to lean in—
but didn’t.

Does He grieve
like a father who watches
his child walk past the open door,
too ashamed to knock?

Or does He simply wait—
unmoving,
unchanged,
burning with a stillness
only eternity understands?


Because I still ache
in the temporary.
I still hold their names
in my prayers
like broken glass
pressed into palms
that would have held them whole.

There is a thickness to Presence
when light has fully come.

It does not press—

   it holds.

It gathers around you
like dusk after heat,
like blankets not laid over
but risen up from within.

You don’t need to speak.
You don’t need to explain.
You don’t need to hide—
because you are already
hidden
in the Light itself.

And in that hiding,
healing begins.

Here, the ache is not judged.
Here, the story is not required.

Here, breath is enough..

  Not because it was taught to grow,
  but because it remembered
  what warmth feels like..

That slow kindle of hope
becomes heat again—
flames returning
to the heart’s own hearth,
too long left cold
by darkness and despair..

A hearth that survived
on wet matchsticks—
built only
by its own need to endure.

---

It is the hearthfire
that feels the light of hope
first.

The more ash-strewn,
the more hollow,
the deeper the heat
of Light’s permeation.

---

So the soul,
once clenched around its pain,

   softens.

Not all at once.
Not forever.
But enough.

Enough to rest.

Enough to believe--

that warmth this deep
could only come
from the Giver of Light

   ..who never left.

And in that warmth—
without pressure,
without fear..

everything begins again.

It is simple, uncomplicated yet straightforward
It is but love and nothing but love
It is but a “Good morning beautiful”
To days end “Goodnight my love”
But two cups of coffee rather than one
The quite attentive smile when listening
The hug and a kiss upon arrival
The respect of consideration when deciding
Understanding of one’s feeling upon action
It is not complicated
To love and live with one in mind
To live as two, not as one
Truly love and respect till death parts
Yet even in death love does not cease
For a true love is eternal
To love you truly
Until the very end
In this life and the next
For all eternity

The moon kissed the forehead of the pond,
as trembling stars embraced its calm,
as if the heavens, vast and deep,
had found their home within its arms.

The marsh watched on with murky eyes,
laden with a heavy gloom,
no star had ever called its name,
no light had graced its silent tomb.

It whispered low, a voice of silt:
"Why must I drown in shade and hush?
Why does the sky refuse to rest
upon my waters, still and lush?"

The wind, a sage of wandering fate,
brushed softly past and dared to say:
"The less you swallow, the more you see,
for clarity holds eternity."

Yet envy wrapped the marsh in dark,
it clutched its depths, it pulled them tight,
it drank itself into the void,
and severed all from warmth and light.

The pond, so quiet, asked for none,
yet bore the stars within its chest—
and in its stillness, silver-clear,
it cradled time. It cradled rest.