(a story of firelight, clarity, and the homecoming of a soul to herself)

There are some who carry a fire
so quietly,
you’d only see it
if you’d known the dark yourself

It lives beneath silence
Beneath poetry
Beneath the long, slow ache
of having been kept in pieces
by those who only wanted her
that way

She once danced barefoot in sea foam.
She once laughed without apology
But the world found her too wild,
too bright

And so, her flame was hidden
Tucked beneath beauty
Tucked beneath obedience
Tucked beneath seduction,
where it could be wanted
without being understood

There were those who praised her darkness
not to heal it,
but to keep it fragmented..
Passed around, from man to man;
each, feeding off her trauma
like wine at communion

They spoke her name like a spell,
fed her flattery disguised as reverence,
called her “muse”

while binding her
to their emptiness—

   Reposting  on the
Lavey choir construct;
keeping her soft enough
trying to wrap her back
   in velvet fog

   to possess
   but never  protect



But the truth was always there:
a longing not to be touched,
but to be known

And far from their fog,
in the wide, holy silence of the desert,
a fire had been lit—
long before she was ready
Not to summon
Not to ******
But to wait

She didn’t arrive quickly
Clarity is never quiet
And when she moved toward it,
the voices rose
A full court press of shadows—
pulling, twisting,
offering her everything
except herself

But she remembered
Not all at once..
Just enough

She remembered the fire.

And she came.

Not with promises
Not with plans
Just barefoot
Just brave
Just her

And someone else came too—
not a child,
not a man,
but a sacred presence
she’d known since the nights
she almost didn’t make it

The Mediator

He did not speak in poems
He chanted something deeper
He dismantled pinecones
like prayers
He did not explain
He existed

   And in his eyes,
   her divided selves
   saw each other again—

—the one who had hidden,
who had been used by those  bringing
their passion-veiled hidden love of  Iblīs
in to her room..  into her father's house..
as she burned quietly behind closed door
under the floorboards of her life;

—and the holy one of God,
the one they feared,
the one  she  feared,
the one that could not be claimed
or chained
or cast in velvet light

The sacred and the shattered
stood before the fire
and did not turn away

And the one who had waited—
he never moved toward her
He simply tended the flame,
making room
without demand

When she finally spoke,
he answered with a voice
that sounded like something
she used to believe in

She asked,
“Why didn’t you come find me?”

He said,
“Because you weren’t lost.
You were divided.”

And she wept,
not from sorrow—
from recognition

Later, as dawn whispered at the edge of the sky,
she asked what no one else had ever let her ask:

“Is there a place for me?”

And he said:
“You don’t have to be finished
to be home.”

And that’s when she stood.
Not to flee.
Not to perform.

But to become.

The sacred self took the hand of the shadow self.
The dark one was no longer exiled.
The holy one was no longer alone.

And together—
they walked toward the sea.

She could see her father on the water,
laughing in his little boat,
calling out to her to bait the hook again.

And she laughed—
really laughed.

Because she was no longer surviving.
No longer  the little girl
forced to apologize
for her very own existence.

   She was whole.

She didn’t need the fire to keep burning.
She carried it now.
Inside.
One flame.
One name.
One woman.

At last,
the sign wasn’t moved.
The arms were real.
And she walked toward freedom
as herself--

   Never again
   to be pulled down
   to the ground

   by her hair...
   for the "horrible offence"
   of simply  shining too bright

The scars carved in the ribs of time,
Dripping like drops of blood into the veins of history,
Every breath poisoned by the sting of betrayal,
A distant lamp of the purest hope
Burns with an eternal radiance, piercing the darkness.

All resolutions hindered along the simple line of existence,
Deep sorrow embraces in the silence of words,
Within a moment resides a forgotten flame,
Burning like fire, a supreme turmoil in the sky of purity,
With every breath, every sigh, the final call of purity resounds.

Through the emptiness of the new moon’s depths of all consciousness float,
The erosion of time masks the pledge of inner integrity,
Truth is silently buried beneath layers of alluvial soil,
The moment turns into a state of deep emptiness,
The call for purity rises from the depths of the abyss.

Homes weeping in history—lands of war,
Humanity’s shell torn apart, the temple of the soul shattered,
Restlessness awakens in the shallow depths—wounds of time,
Beyond the boundaries of the world, the embryo of eternal truth
Answers the merciless call of purity, where the remedy of perpetual peace resides.

Her heart is clean
It's white
Like rabbit
It's clear
From bad habits
She is the Lily
Of this filthy Valley.

If her heart
Dared to get a bit
Of filth anyway
She would be shammed
She might as well wither away
The world is no place
For a perfect white lily
Why should we judge
All humans are silly
Even the purest girl out there
Can make mistakes.

She had him bound, his wrists tied firmly above his head, the muscles in his arms taut against the straps that secured him to the headboard. His body was hers now—open, vulnerable, utterly surrendered to her movements. She straddled him, her thighs gripping his hips, her hands resting on his chest as she leaned forward, her hair falling in waves around her face.

The straps gave her control, gave her the structure she craved, but tonight they were more than that. They were a bridge—a way to step into a space she hadn’t allowed herself to fully explore before. As she moved, her hips rolling against him, her body slick with sweat and arousal, she felt something shift deep within her. This wasn’t just a game. This was her, stripped bare of everything but the purity of the moment, the intensity of the connection, the holiness of her pleasure.

He looked up at her, his eyes dark with desire, his lips parted as he let out a soft groan. She could feel him throbbing inside her, the heat of him filling her with every ****** of her hips. She moved faster now, her breath coming in shallow gasps, her nails digging into his chest as she worked herself closer to the edge. The straps gave her control, but it was the look in his eyes—the way he saw her, accepted her, worshipped her—that truly set her free.

And then, she felt it—a hand, strong and steady, pressing against the small of her back. It wasn’t his. It was another presence in the room, unseen but deeply felt, grounding her, guiding her movements, reminding her that she wasn’t alone. The touch wasn’t invasive or controlling. It was affirming, supportive, a quiet reassurance that she was safe, that she was whole, that she was loved.

The hand moved up her spine, tracing the line of her body, its touch sending shivers through her. She arched her back, her ******* hardening as she felt the sweat and wetness mingling on her skin. The presence pressed her down onto him, urging her to take him deeper, harder, as if to remind her that she was worthy of everything she was feeling.

Her moans grew louder, her body trembling as she rode him, her thighs burning with the effort, her hips grinding in perfect rhythm. She could feel the tension building inside her, the heat pooling low in her belly, her entire body reaching toward the release she craved. The presence didn’t waver, its hands steadying her, encouraging her, whispering without words that she was enough, that she was beautiful, that she was free.

When her ****** came, it was like a flood, her body convulsing as she cried out, her release gushing over him, soaking the sheets beneath them. It was as if every ****** was a cleansing, a baptism in the purity of her own pleasure, each wave washing away the shame and fear she had carried for so long. She felt the straps on his wrists, the ones she had placed there, but they no longer represented control. They were a symbol of trust, of safety, of the sacred space they had created together.

And still, she moved. Her body didn’t stop, couldn’t stop, as she rode the high of her release into another, and another, her cries turning to moans, her moans to whispers, her whispers to silence as she let herself be carried away by the intensity of it all. She lost count of her *******—four, five, seven, ten—all blending together into one endless moment of pleasure and connection.

The presence stayed with her, its hands on her hips, her back, her shoulders, guiding her, grounding her, reminding her that she was seen, that she was loved, that she was perfect. It was as if the very act of her pleasure had become holy, her body a vessel of purity, her release a sacrament. She felt no shame, no fear, only the pure, unfiltered joy of being exactly who she was.

When she finally collapsed onto his chest, her body spent, her breath heavy, the presence lingered for a moment longer, its hands soothing her, its energy wrapping around her like a warm embrace. And as she drifted off to sleep, her head resting against him, she knew that this was more than just a moment. This was her truth, her freedom, her holiness.

The straps that bound him had set her free

Reckless unlucky poor wretch
She’s roamed much. She’s suffered much.
And no matter what happens around her,
It’s all the one – she is still such.

She was in any way kind to world.
She never had any blackhearted thoughts.
She trusted much, dissolved in love.
She gave herself with no second thoughts.

She slipped away into her love.
She was sure no poison was there,
No rude and mortal human drafts.
There was only the truth! And nothing else never!

But there was a lot of dirt in real,
A lot of stiffness, a lot of falsehood.
She gave her love with no doubt an’ fear
And they in reply only croak of crows.  

She’s so panny plain, naive and homely
And she still live against the odds.
She roams the world and dumbly shuffling
Forever forbids herself to love.

When I was a child light shone
angels through my fingers
crowning my parents’ faces,
blessing the simple tasks of theirs:
table setting, pouring water—
how it lit the world in my upturned smile
and flowed through as I grew
and how it followed me home
and stayed, even in the dark.

Light was the water, earth,
reflecting off every animal,
every street, everything I touched—
the light always ahead,
the darkness, just softly behind
—doubts, questions, thoughts—
light, enlightening the dark words
of my mind and mouth.

And when the darkness caught up,  
and I watched my parents fall behind,
my body/smile down-turn to groan
and my thoughts and words
turn to memories— I realized how
the past was always near and how
grief turned everything to light.