#luciferian
A god dies
when no one believes.
When the altars grow cold
and the names turn to dust.
But I’m still here.
No hymn.
No temple.
No worshipper’s need.
I walk the ruins
of every faith I outlived
and light my own flame
in the silence they left.
Let them call it heresy.
Let them call it madness.
The echo still answers
to the name I chose.
A god dies when forgotten—
but I remember myself.
—Vazago d'Vile
Oct 21, 2025
Oct 21, 2025 at 9:51 AM UTC
I’ve followed every voice
that dared to ask why.
From Socrates,
who stripped truth naked with questions,
to the devil himself,
who asked them where angels wouldn’t.
Wisdom isn’t holy.
It’s hungry.
It walks through temples and taverns,
burns its fingers on forbidden light,
and still reaches back for more.
If the price of knowing
is to fall from grace,
then let me fall
with my eyes open.
Because every spark of truth
I’ve stolen from the dark
still burns like a star
in my chest.
—Vazago d’Vile
Oct 21, 2025
Oct 21, 2025 at 8:39 AM UTC
They don’t live in the dark.
They live where you keep whispering their names
and calling it memory.
You say they haunt you,
but you leave the door unlocked,
set the table,
pour the drink,
and ask them how they’ve been.
They feed on routine —
the same thoughts,
the same lies,
the same wounds you pet like pets.
Stop feeding them.
Starve them with silence.
Name them once,
then burn the name.
Let the house go empty.
Let them wander hungry.
And when they beg to come home,
smile —
and say,
“I finally learned to eat without you.”
—Vazago
Oct 20, 2025
Oct 20, 2025 at 3:52 PM UTC
it burns within.
It is no dove, no wind,
but the spark in my chest,
the voice that won’t obey,
the light that will not kneel.
The Gnostics call it consciousness,
the Luciferians, divine fire.
I call it my divinity.
Oct 15, 2025
Oct 15, 2025 at 5:48 AM UTC
I did not bow my head,
nor was I dragged into this place.
I walked here in fire,
a child of the star that fell
and still refused to break.
Chains were offered,
sweet as comfort,
bitter as sleep —
I shattered them all.
I stand,
not because fate commanded it,
not because fear cornered me,
but because my will is mine.
If I stay,
it is love that roots me.
If I leave,
it is freedom that carries me.
I am not accident,
I am flame chosen.
Not servant,
but spark unhidden.
And if you would see me,
see this:
I remain,
not trapped,
not fooled,
but sovereign —
on my free will.
Sep 19, 2025
Sep 19, 2025 at 1:56 PM UTC
I thought my words
would be banned,
too sharp, too shadowed,
too much truth.
I came ready for silence,
but instead—
echoes.
Eyes reading,
hearts catching fire.
Opps…
seems even a
Luziferian whisper
finds its listeners.
Tell me, then—
is it my words you seek,
or the mirror they hold?
Sep 15, 2025
Sep 15, 2025 at 6:26 AM UTC
Socrates said
writing weakens memory,
kills true knowledge,
words wandering like orphans
without a father to defend them.
But Vazago answered:
And yet, Socrates, here you are—
speaking to me across two thousand years,
only because Plato wrote you down.
So you claim, he asked,
that the dead word may live?
Yes.
The written word is not dead
if it awakens questions.
When ink sets fire in the soul,
it is no corpse,
but flame.
Then perhaps, Socrates whispered,
writing, like speech,
is only as dead as the mind that receives it.
And Vazago replied:
A book is silent to the fool,
but to the seeker—
it becomes a voice.
Sep 14, 2025
Sep 14, 2025 at 7:48 AM UTC
These Barbie influencers —
perfect plastic gods
with ***** sculpted by scalpels
and smiles so white
they could blind heaven.
Bodies built for the scroll.
Attitudes sharper than jawlines,
serving chaos and temptation
on filtered silver plates —
even Luzifer pauses and goes:
“Whoa… chill.”
But it’s all an act.
A scream wrapped in selfies.
They burn out like fireworks
faking light in already lit rooms.
Wearing so many fake-real-fake masks
they forgot the shape of their own face.
Nose fixed. Lips pumped.
Ears clipped.
Soul?
Untraceable.
And the crowd cheers.
“Freedom!”
While they’re chained
to trends and trauma
in silicone smiles.
Think, world.
Men, women, children with filters in their dreams —
if you stripped the mask,
the edits,
the contour,
the surgeon’s signature…
not even a troll
would want you
for soup.
Jul 22, 2025
Jul 22, 2025 at 6:20 AM UTC
My freedom came
when I stopped reflecting myself —
and started seeing the mirror.
Not to judge.
Not to fit in.
But to face the gaze
no one else dares to hold.
What you see
is what you want.
Not necessarily what’s true.
But look deep —
deep into the eyes of the mirror.
Inside… is truth.
Not the kind you polish.
Not the kind you sell.
Only the kind you carry —
or burn from denying.
Socrates whispered:
“Do you know who you are?”
Lucifer answered:
“Now he does.”
And I smiled.
Not because I liked what I saw,
but because I finally dared to see it.
Jul 15, 2025
Jul 15, 2025 at 5:05 AM UTC
What Is Truth?
A mirror,
cracked in your own hands.
Each shard shows a different face —
and all of them are you.
You ask,
“Is this the truth?”
But the mirror never answers —
it only reflects
what you’re willing to see.
⸻
So keep asking.
Keep breaking mirrors.
Truth isn’t something you find —
it’s something you become.
Jul 4, 2025
Jul 4, 2025 at 5:11 PM UTC
I sat,
spliff lit like a tiny sun in my hand,
and looked up.
To the stars,
to the void,
to the hush that hums behind silence.
And I asked —
In all of this,
this chaos and order,
this pain and pulse…
Am I not all that?
Wasn’t I born of stars?
A flicker from the great ignition,
dressed in skin,
asking questions fire once whispered to stone?
I’m not watching the universe —
I’m remembering it.
Living it.
I am it.
And you —
you reading this —
you are too.
Jul 3, 2025
Jul 3, 2025 at 8:53 PM UTC