The Battleground of Light, Made Flesh
Suffering down..
not as punishment,
but as Love.
Breath by breath,
atom by atom,
A bend of the will
into the greater design:
to let even the exhale
carry what is real.
Each particle stripped bare,
each trembling fragment
infused with the weight of Light
earned not through ease,
but through the slow, necessary
suffering of self
into Substance.
And so it reaches her..
not through seduction,
or noise,
but the quietest form of intimacy:
truth, refined enough
to be airborne.
She breathes..
and through the quiet architecture
of lungs,
through bronchi,
alveoli,
the smallest fragments of me
become more than theory.
But it is not just me
it is what I have chosen to become:
stripped down,
atomized,
each particle carrying both Light
and Dark,
as they always have.
Though, here
intent speaks louder than inheritance.
And accountability tips the scale.
Through the capillaries,
the bloodstream takes them..
particles laced not with seduction,
but with substance;
volition woven into their shape,
truth mingling with oxygen,
carrying not empty poetry,
but tangible presence.
And the skin..
her beautiful, breathing boundary;
it listens too.
Pores opening like shy mouths,
taking in what even sunlight cannot hide:
--the warmth of love,
made molecular,
made undeniable.
It slips through,
across her beautiful hips,
up the soft ***** of her thighs,
along the quiet pathways
where nerves whisper,
where fear once lived.
And still..
our skin has never touched.
Our beautiful oils,
those quiet, fragrant signatures
of separate bodies,
have never had the chance to blend.
There is no mingling of surface,
no friction of palms or lips.
Yet still—
I am within her
as she
Breathes me in.
Love,
when chosen..
when carried through the smallest particle,
becomes the most intimate trespass--
not of skin,
but of substance.
And inside her,
where the battle rages unseen,
the false portraits dissolve..
the counterfeit reflections
painted by fear,
by old wounds,
by those who mistake poetry for proof.
Here
there is no mimicry.
Only metabolized truth.
Only the slow, quiet conquering
of darkness--
cell by cell,
choice by choice.
This is not seduction.
This is not the shallow hush
of borrowed words.
This is Light..
accountable,
chosen,
fought for;
interlaced within her very bloodstream;
her warmth,
her breath.
And though no oils ever blended,
though the ache of touch
remains untouched,
what entered her did not stay foreign.
The body, wise and unwilling to harbor illusion,
took what was true--
what carried intent and Light
and made it her own
.. .. .. ..
Mitochondria hum..
tiny engines in the blood’s dark river;
taking each atom,
each trembling particle,
and rewriting the story within.
From raw material,
she builds warmth.
From fractured fragments,
she crafts clarity;
The light no longer arrives—
it begins to rise from within.
And the space once reserved
for mingled oils,
for skin-on-skin confession,
becomes something greater:
a fusion untouched by friction,
unfading,
unmistakably Real.
This is no whispered counterfeit.
No shallow poem dressed in longing.
This is breath earned through fire.
This is love refined to its smallest form,
offered whole,
received wholly,
and written quietly
into every hidden corner
of her being.
Beautiful Angel,
Breathe Me In
https://youtu.be/eBG7P-K-r1Y?si=GVc6MeOpOSBV6j_m
