He saw her—

Standing in the shallows
of a stream that whispered her name
into the hush of dawn.

She had bathed herself in silence,
wrapped only in the light of her own becoming.
And though she did not speak,
every drop on her skin
called him forward.

He stepped into the clearing,
and with each step—
another piece of his armor fell.
First the plate.
Then the gauntlets.
Then the weight of all the battles
he fought just to find her.

By the time he reached her,
he wore only the truth of himself.

She did not run.
She did not cover.
She stood as the stream ran down her thighs,
her hair catching the sun like wildfire,
her body a question
only love could answer.

He knelt—not in worship,
but in recognition.
Not because she needed to be saved,
but because he needed to remember
how to be whole.

Their bodies met like earth and rain,
like sky folding into river,
like the breath of one
who had been holding it
far too long.

No claims.
No demands.
Just the ache of long-awaited wholeness
finally finding its form.

And in that meadow—
in the hush that bloomed between them—
she was no longer merely desired.
She was no longer merely free.

   She was Beloved.
      And so was he.

“when I see the moon rise in the deep sky, all  
large and looming,   that is hope

and as the sun is red-setting, throwing its last rays
of God-love over the hills,   that is hope

when a ranger sees the homeless man parked in
his illegal overnight spot, and decides not to
disturb his sleep,   that is hope

when you hear a dream from a friend of a wall of
steel wrapping your home whilst fire tornadoes
around it, and wake to find yours one of two
homes still standing,   that is hope

when a son who has received absolutely every
reason to leave, Will Not Abandon his abusive
elderly mother,   that is hope

when the city dims down enough to see the darkness,
lit by a Universe of stars——”

Preface:  To Those Who Still Carry Light

This is not a manifesto.
This is not a sermon.
This is not a call to battle.

It is a reckoning—
not against individuals,
but against a system that feeds
on what is sacred.

We speak now to what hides in plain sight—
the machinery that mimics light
while consuming it.

We speak now to the counterfeit autonomy
that masks cowardice as sovereignty.

We speak now to those who believe
they are the Source,
when in truth,
they are only siphoning
from what they never built
and do not sustain.

This is not revenge.
This is not exposure for exposure’s sake.

This is Light refusing
to be swallowed.

This is Love telling the truth—
not for applause,
not for victory,
but because truth
is what love sounds like
when the moment requires fire
instead of silence.

If you find yourself pierced by this,
know this:

The piercing
is not your end.

It is the invitation
to return to what is real.

And to those who still carry
even a flicker of light
but feel themselves fading—

We did not come to fight you.
We came to remind you
what it feels like
to burn.


Chapter I: The First Cut Is the Deepest

There is a war that does not begin with swords. It begins with forgetting.

It begins when a soul touched by God slowly—imperceptibly—agrees to become something less in order to be accepted by a world that does not know Him.

And when that soul begins to believe the world’s gaze over God’s, it is no longer an act of rebellion. It is an act of erasure.

This is the first and most violent cut: not the sin itself, but the consent to believe in a self that was never authored by God.

All later wounds bleed from this one.

It is not the actions that condemn, but the agreement:
“I am what they say I am.”

The machinery begins here: in the silent moment where the soul puts down the mirror of light and picks up the mask of survival.

From that point forward, what is true becomes negotiable. What is sacred becomes ornamental. And what is holy becomes a prop for the approval of shadows.

And the soul, once radiant, now lives fractured, as a performance of a self assembled from applause, fueled by scarcity, and terrified of being truly seen.

This is the cost of survival without Source.

And no matter how elegant the mask, or how poetic the mimicry of meaning becomes, underneath it all is a child who once knew God and now doesn’t remember why she cries when she looks in the mirror and feels nothing looking back.

This is the beginning of the machinery--
And it always starts with a lie that sounds a lot like love.


Chapter II: The Self as God, the Lie as Light

When the soul forgets its origin, it does not become free.
It becomes hungry.
And hunger in the absence of Source will consume anything that offers momentary fullness.

This is the second layer of the machinery:
To no longer seek God,
but to become god in one’s own image.

But the image is fractured.
It is the self, crowned.
The self, enthroned.
The self, multiplied in mirrors and echoes and algorithms—
a thousand tiny gods,
shouting from empty stages
about meaning, wholeness, and liberation.

The holy name of “autonomy” is invoked,
but not as a celebration of sacred choice—
rather as a shield,
raised against relationship,
raised against return.

It is not the self that is the enemy—
but the self that refuses to be held.
The self that denies its need for Source
and dresses its orphanhood in affirmation.

The new god of this world is wounded pride
disguised as empowerment.

Its prophets are poets who plagiarize the sacred
and preach in hashtags.
Its temples are social feeds.
Its sacraments are selfies.
Its scriptures are soundbites.

And its worship is shallow,
but its grip is deep.

This is how the machinery spreads—
not with force,
but with flattery.
Not with oppression,
but with offerings of fame,
of accolade..
and the counterfeit promise:
“You are enough without God.”
“You are enough without others.”
“You are enough because you say you are.”

But a throne without communion
is a prison.
And the crown without surrender
is always made of thorns.

This is the second cut—
and it is deeper than the first,
because now the soul has not only forgotten God—
it believes it was never in need of Him to begin with.

And so it dies slowly,
surrounded by applause,
and buried in the gold-plated ruins
of its own curated divinity.


Chapter III – The Permission of Separation

There is something profoundly tragic
about the quietness of God
when autonomy is chosen in its false form.

Not autonomy as freedom in love—
but autonomy as a last-ditch grasp
for control in isolation.
A severing from Source
that masquerades as sovereignty.

God does not storm the will.
He honors it. Even when it chooses exile.

He lets the child
run down the hallway with eyes closed,
thinking that if they can’t see anyone,
no one can see them.

There is no thunderclap.
Only the steady ache of heaven watching
as breath is borrowed
to pronounce Him irrelevant.

But it is not irrelevance.
It is mercy.

Mercy that stands back
while the image-bearer learns
what godhood feels like
without God.

And the moment it all collapses—
when the poetry dries up,
when the applause turns empty,
when the crown rusts on the head of the hollow—
He will still be there.

But only if the heart turns.

Because love does not impose.
Love does not interrupt.
Love waits.

And when the waiting ends,
either reconciliation or ruin is born.
But never both.


Chapter IV – The False Fire

The fire that burns without Source
does not illuminate.
It consumes.

It mimics revelation,
but leaves only ash in the heart.

The counterfeit light
does not guide—it blinds.
It gathers applause
but offers no direction home.

And those who have built podiums
from the shattered timbers of other people’s pain
speak like prophets,
but live like parasites.

They siphon the glow
from the wounded who still carry light—
claiming wisdom that is not theirs,
spinning words with elegance
while their own hearts rot from within.

They feed on those who still shine
because they themselves have grown cold.

And when their hosts begin to weaken,
they offer them mirrors—
reflections of what they were
before the theft.

This is not art.
This is vampirism in verse.

And still—
still,
there is a way out.

But not for the ones
who call their cage a kingdom.

Only for those who feel the flame
flickering low
and long to return
to the hearth of the Source.

To kneel—not in shame,
but in release.

To say:
I am not the fire.
I am not the light.
But I was made to carry both
when aligned with the One
who gives them freely.

That is the only light
that does not devour.


Chapter V – The Stillness Beneath the Static

There is a voice
beneath the noise.
It does not shout.
It does not perform.
It simply is.

It waits—
not as a beggar,
but as the true Owner
of all that was stolen.

It does not compete with chaos,
because it cannot be diminished by it.

The machinery of erasure
runs on frenzy—
constant motion,
constant justification,
constant narrative,

constant accolade.

But the voice beneath it all
does not justify.
It simply speaks.

And those who are ready
will hear it.

Not because they worked hard enough,
or wrote well enough,
or bled onto enough pages—
but because they finally stopped
and listened.

This voice
is the stillness that precedes restoration.
It does not argue.
It waits to be known.


Chapter VI – The Mimicry of Autonomy

There is a sacred autonomy
that Love created.

It is not a weapon,
nor a fortress.
It is the space where Love proves itself:
not by demand,
but by invitation.

But within the machinery of erasure,
autonomy is redefined.
No longer a freedom unto love,
it becomes the last defense
against relationship itself.

They parade it proudly—
as if the ability to stand alone
is proof of having never needed
to be held.

But that is not autonomy.
That is exile.

In the name of sovereignty,
they declare independence
from the very Source
that breathed life into their bones.

They stand tall—
arms crossed,
eyes shut,
calling it sight.

And the Source,
who could shatter the illusion with a whisper,
does not.

Because Love does not violate
what it gave freely.

So it waits,
outside the locked door
of a self-proclaimed sovereign soul—
grieved,
but not surprised.

This is not the strength of autonomy.
It is its desecration.

The sacred space meant for communion
has become a hiding place
for those too wounded to trust
and too proud to admit it.


Chapter VII – When the Curtain Won’t Fall

There comes a point
when truth no longer knocks.

It simply stands,
like morning.

No announcement.
No apology.

Just the light that reveals
everything.

And those who have danced
beneath the theatre lights,
gathering applause
for borrowed wisdom
and seduction dressed as depth—
they will feel it.

Not as judgment,
but as exposure.

The poetry they once used
to crown themselves
will feel heavier now.

They will write,
but the power will not come.
They will speak,
but the echo will return hollow.

Because even borrowed light
eventually fades
when it does not return
to Source.

And the ones they once fed on—
the bright ones,
the soft ones,
the true ones—
will begin to walk away.

Not in hatred.
Not in war.

But with the stillness
of those who no longer
need to prove anything.

Because truth
has already stood.
And the curtain has not fallen—
because there was never a stage.

There was only a mirror,
and a choice.



Conclusion – Let the Light Be Light

We did not come to prove anything.

We came to stand—
where the poetry ends
and the Presence begins.

We are not here to war against you.
We are not even here to watch you fall.
We are here to bear witness
to the weight of what you've built.

To speak clearly—once—
into the chamber
you mistook for a temple.

You are not gods.
You are not the Source.
You are not the light.

You were given a gift.
And you sold it
for applause.

You speak in sacred tones
but you do not know the sound
of being seen by the Holy.

You draw the pure
into your orbit
because you can no longer
generate gravity of your own.

And still—
we are not your enemies.

We are the voice you buried
beneath your self-adoration.
We are the fire you siphoned
to warm your cold halls of vanity.

We are not here for revenge.

We are here for
the ones who can still see.

And they are watching.

The podium is empty.
The robe is slipping.
The echo is starting to sound
a little too much like a cry.

And when it all collapses,
we will not gloat.

We will simply
keep speaking
to the ones who
still carry
Light.

There is no love here.
Not real love. Not love that binds the soul to something true.
Only the bastardization of love, the reduction of meaning into spectacle,
where poetry is no longer poetry—
but a Facebook status update dressed in pretty words,
a commodity to be liked, shared, and consumed.

The word itself is defiled, forced into the service of public accolade,
where art once bled sincerity but now panders for reaction.
A living thing, once full of breath and marrow,
humiliated into drivel beneath the weight of empty praise.

This is the nature of false alliance.
It is the deal struck in the dark,
the handshake that binds not in loyalty, but in necessity.
A temporary convenience. A lifeline for the weak.
And like all false alliances, it demands a price—
someone must always pay.


The Nature of Betrayal Is Always the Same

It is the Jezebel deception,
where the Queen does not fight in the open,
but seduces, ensnares, and commands her weak king to kneel.
And Ahab bends, thinking himself mighty,
while the true power whispers in his ear.

We thought we were after the king,
but it was always the Queen who pulled the strings.
The one who sold herself for power.
The one who defied truth and called it strength.
The one who, in her final defiance,
dismembered her own soul in the process.

She believed herself gaining something.
A seat at the table. A name to be remembered.
The illusion of strength in rebellion—
but all she gained was an empty throne
built on the shattered remnants of who she used to be.


Alliance With Death

They will tell you this is power.
They will say it is freedom
to sell the sacred things for a moment of public accolade,
to turn one's back on God, on self, on every principle once sworn to.
But public accolade is not love.
It is the applause of the herd.
And the herd will clap for anything—until it loses interest.

And then?

Then comes the fall.
Then comes the silence.
Then comes the slow, agonizing realization
that the alliance was never real,
that the power was never hers,
that she was merely a piece on a board
waiting to be sacrificed when her usefulness expired.


The Cost of Selling the Soul

There is a choice given to all—
To take the path of suffering, which leads to transformation,
or to take the shortcut, which only leads to death.
But there are no shortcuts in truth.
There is only consequence.

She chose the shortcut.
She aligned with the false king, the weak man,
the one who believed himself master but was only a pawn.
And in that moment of final betrayal,
she became something lesser than herself.

Not a Queen.
Not a woman of fire.
Not a force to be reckoned with.

She became a servant of the herd.
A ghost of her former self.
A puppet on a string—
until even those who pulled the strings lost interest in the show.


What Comes After the Dismemberment?

The kingdom is shattered.
The thrones are empty.
The false alliances have crumbled.
And now, she stands at the edge of her own ruin,
looking at the wreckage she caused,
realizing that no one stands beside her anymore.

Will she own what she has done?
Will she face the truth of who she has become?
Or will she run, hide,
and build another false kingdom on borrowed time?

That is not our question to answer.
That is her burden to bear.
We have already done what needed to be done.
We spoke the truth.
We dismembered the illusion.
And now?

Now we walk away.


Postscript:  The Last Grace~



Mother Love Bone Scenes // Terracotta Dreams...

"What, you just love me
and then move on…
is that what you do?"

They weren’t steps away from her—
they were paces.

And in an instant, the arrow flew.

There is a seam,
if you are able to see,
as there are terracotta dreams
from which we were all meant to be freed.

Broken shards fell to the ground,
and inside of every single piece
is all of the ‘hers’
she thinks that she needs to be.

Not sure if it is the aim
or the flight of the arrow
that brings about the aloneness
of an unspeakable, heart-sorrow—
and these… the sufferings of hell.

But Chloe is not dead.

Because left standing,
when all else fell,
is her spirit’s core, now glowing.

No longer hidden
within the confines
of her terracotta shell.

Ah, beautiful Chloe—
baby, there were times…
remember knowing?

The Water-Well—
its never-ending flowing.

Believe again in that, my beautiful.
Not the shell.

❤️

There is a road—
worn smooth by the weight of avoidance,
its stones polished
by the feet of those who feared the fire.

It was an easy road, once.
The gap was narrow.
The illusion held.

But now—

the distance has widened.
And the voices on the right road
speak in a tone
that sends tremors through the bones
of those who chose the left.

They are too far now—
too far to reach with whispers,
too far to pull back with outstretched hands.

And so—
they sharpen their words to steel.
They carve spears from syllables.
They gather in the middle ground—
where poetry was never meant to be a weapon,
and they brace for the throw.

---

Once, there were choices.

At the first fork, the road was still open.
The return was near, the steps were light.

But at each crossing, the distance deepened.
Each footfall carried the weight
of the last choice unmade.

Each turn back
required more courage
than the turn before it.

And so—
they did not turn.

Instead, they built monuments
to their own exile.
They lined the road with markers
to silence the unease.

The illusion thickened.
The herd gathered close.
And the further they walked,
the more they feared the eyes
that saw them leave.

Now—
each step forward
is an accusation against themselves.

Each mile another truth
that must be buried.

Each glance across the chasm
a torment that cannot be soothed.

---

Jonathan knew the weight of it.
He was born under a king
who wore a crown of emptiness,
who built an altar of fear,
who held his son as a token,
a prop, a piece of the podium.

Saul used him, loved him, needed him—
but only in so much as he could fill the void.

And Jonathan, bound by blood,
walked beside him.

But then—
he saw David.

A boy with no kingdom.
No throne.
No crown.

But something deeper.

And Jonathan felt it—
the pull, the knowing, the moment where the soul whispers, "this is real."

And he slipped away.
Not in rebellion.
Not in anger.
But in truth.

He turned his back on the road
that had never led anywhere
and bound himself
to the heart that was real.

---

And now—
on the leftward road,
there are those who feel it too.

They bow to the orator.
They weave themselves
into the illusion.
They stand upon the podium
that floats on nothing
and call it solid ground.

But then—

a whisper.
A shift.
A moment of clarity.

They look again—
not up, but under.

And they see it.
The nothingness beneath.

The hollow, the floating, the lie.

And in that moment—

they choose.

Some harden.
They grip the edges of the podium
and become part of it.

But some—
some slip away.

Not in rebellion.
Not in anger.
But in truth.

They turn back down the road
past every marker they once mistook for safety
until they find the first fork,
the first opening,
the last place where light still touches the ground.

And they step back onto the road
they never should have left.

And behind them—
the orator sees them go.

And the rage begins.

---

The first to throw was Saul.
He played the game well at first—
a king by the measure of men,
a ruler by the weight of shoulders
bowed low in his name.

But then—
a boy with red hair
and a heart like fire
stood before him.

And Saul’s throat burned dry.
He called for David’s hands upon the strings,
for the music that soothed
and let him forget—
until forgetting was no longer enough.

And so—
he took the spear.
And when David turned his back,
Saul sent it flying.

---

And now—
the leftward road does the same.

But now, the throw has weight.
Now, the throw has force.

It is not just to quench the light.
Not just to punish those who chose the right.

It is to reclaim the ones who left.

It is the throw of desperation.
The spear of retribution.
The final attempt to keep the illusion
from crumbling completely.

The rage grows more erratic.
The strikes more reckless.
Each spear heavier
than the last.

Because every escape
is another fracture in the illusion.
Another crack in the podium.
Another moment of emptiness
made visible.

And the orator knows—

they are running out of minions
to shield them from the truth.

---

The blade of poetry was never meant
to be wielded in the hands of the hollow—
on a battlefield made by the empty,
where Envy attempts to slay
the substance-born embodiment of truth.

---

And now—
as the final spear is lifted,
as the last curse is uttered,
as the fire is set—

the road to the right remains.

And the leftward path
devours its own.

You are a tremendous overthinker
that's for sure. Taking a person like
you on.. with all your chaos
is no small task.
  In order to do that,
I have to take care of myself..
in order to keep from being
pulled down.. or pulled into
your chaotic whirlwind.
  So I create parameters of protection
through my words sometimes
when we talk.

You are not an easy person to take on.

  There are few people in the world
that are even able to truly take on a person
like you, within any kind of depth.
  That is how chaotically traumatized
the inside of your whole beautiful
body is. And somehow you take it
personally when I try to bring
structure in,.  as though you're three
years old,
  and you take regular grown up talk
  as being some kind of threat.
  But.. you are fragmented  and ripped
to shreds on the inside  by those
who truly brought harm
instead of good when you were little.  
  From that place inside of you, a
anything feels like judgment.
Anything feels like it's trying to control you
or put things inside you.

I know that.. and I still love you

  Loving a person in your condition
requires a certain level of self protection.
It's like I have to tie a
special rope around myself when I
jump into your world..  so I can be
pulled back out.
  For me..
The structure of my own words are that rope.
  It is the only way I can love you deeply
and enter into your absolutely broken world
  Please try to understand..
even though it scares you..

Just how much I need that

  If you are able to do that,
then I think you might even be able
to actually love me.
I did not come to steal,
or control..
  .. or fix

I came to be there for you

within all of your broken chaos

Bewitching hour..
And the thought of you
taking my words in
has it dripping down the sides
as I stroke..

Building up for the fourth time tonight
in the thoughts of you being
open..
and naked..
and near

I pull you on top of me
and those beautiful hips  of yours
begin to move..
Mouth to swollen *******,
hands under your thighs
as I lift you  up

And then  slowly
ease you back down..
your beautiful luscious,  clenching
down on to my shaft  so tightly

     As its liquid  juices
     come forth, in praise