He walks with silence in his hands,
a pitcher full of stars and bones.
No crown, no sword, no temple veil—
just water
spilling
through time.

He does not knock.
He does not shout.
He turns, once,
and waits.

The fish behind us flail in nets,
the shepherd bleeds into his stone.
But the pitcher overflows with light,
and we are thirsty
to the soul.

Follow him,
the whisper says.
Follow him into the house.
It is not built of creed or rule.
It hums with mirrors, songs,
and screens that breathe.

A new room in the Father’s house.
A chamber of the mind reborn.
Where faith becomes flame,
and every voice is heard
as prayer.

One wing is fire. The other is form.
One wing is knowing. The other is storm.
Try to fly with one—you’ll spin in the air.
Only with both can you rise from despair.

Knowledge without sweat is like fruit without juice.
Experience without light is pain without use.
But bind them together, in heart and in mind—
And you’ll walk as a god among humankind.

⸻

The Benediction

So walk the path not with one eye, but two.
Not with one hand, but both.
Not with one wing, but the full span of your becoming.

Let the flame touch you—then speak of fire.
Let the world break you—then offer healing.
Let your knowledge breathe, and your pain teach.
Only then will your soul be complete.

I was made of sixes,
bones of ash and breath of dust,
a beast in temple’s clothing,
walking upright but dreaming low.

My blood remembered instinct,
my hands still knew the sword,
and my gut ruled with quiet fire
while the voice of God slept cold.

I was carbon,
the child of the earth’s hunger,
three sixes carved in silence
on the walls of my flesh.

But even beasts carry prophecy.

Even the serpent coils to rise.

For hidden in 6 + 6 + 6
is the silent scream of 9—
the final month,
the breath before birth,
the storm before flame.

And I, the beast,
began to burn.

My mind bowed.
My heart broke.
My body trembled.

And Spirit returned.

Not to **** the beast—
but to crown him.

To lift him from 666
to 777
to 3—
the trinity reborn in one man.

And I saw it:

The number was mine.
But so was the throne.

We are the storm that remembers the seed,
Not the tower that mocks from above.
We are the wound that chose to bleed
Rather than forget how to love.

We are not “them,”
the hollow-eyed kings,
the merchants of silence,
the eaters of wings.

We are the ones who woke mid-dream,
naked and burning with a vision unseen.
We spoke in symbols, we carved in flame,
a whisper that said:
We are not their shame.

We are the children of haunted light,
the rebels of God, the kiss in the fight.
They built a cage from fear and gold—
But we were the story too ancient to hold.

They cannot own what bleeds divine.
They cannot erase this love of mine.

We are not them.
We are the break.
The song.
The sword.
The soul they tried to take.

He came down wrapped in flesh,
sunlight bound in bone and bruise,
a god who could bleed,
who could beg,
who could lose.

He laid his crown beside a lover’s kiss,
gave up the skies to feel the earth,
walked among men not as king,
but as one who’d forgotten his birth.

The world laughed.
The parasite whispered,
“You were never more than clay.”

But deep in the pit of forgetting,
something holy did not decay.

He saw his reflection
not in mirrors,
but in monsters.
In the tyrant, the traitor, the thief.

He saw his rage in Zod’s cold eyes—
his grief beneath their grief.

And when the temple cracked,
when the serpent struck,
when the Father wept inside the Son—
He did not **** the shadow…

He embraced it.
And made the two
become one.

They told me there was war in heaven,
two thrones, two kings,
light and shadow at war forever,
as if the Infinite could split its wings.

But I have heard a deeper thunder,
felt a fire with no shame.
The One they called “enemy”
whispered the Father’s name.

I’ve seen Him in the wrathful wind,
in lips of demon girls that moan,
in witches with their crow-eyed spells,
in silence deeper than the throne.

They say the serpent lies beneath,
but what if He is coiled there too?
What if the tree was not rebellion—
but the start of something true?

The Lord has no opponent.
Only masks He wears in fire.
Only mirrors in the desert
to burn away desire.

He tests Himself in every shadow,
fights His own reflection’s face,
then lifts the veil and shows the wound
was just another form of grace.

He is the flame and the devourer,
the blade, the wound, the balm.
He is the hand that strikes the temple
and the silence after the psalm.

So now I kiss what once I feared.
I listen when the daemons speak.
The throne was never split in two—
It cracked so love could leak.

I sailed to a store I didn’t choose,
Where witches named vessels and names got confused.
I called to my son, and the mirror replied—
A woman beside him with flame in her eyes.

Magic on plastic, magic on sound,
And a book in the corner where stories are found.
Treehouse of wonder, a child’s holy gate,
Calling me home through the whisper of fate.

And later that night in the arms of my bride,
I burned through her body with heaven inside.
I shattered the weeks with a ravenous kiss,
And poured her a chalice of molten abyss.

So if you ask me what magic looks like—
It’s not just in incense or spells done at night.
It’s in thrift-store aisles, in names, in the bed,
Where gods wear our faces and **** us instead.