Preface:

This is not a lullaby. This is not a soft whisper meant to soothe. It is the fire of wholeness, burning away the fragments, the lies, and the false comforts that keep you small. There are voices that call shadow safe, that wear the mask of care, but scatter you with every syllable. There are whispers that paint the Light as harm--
when all along,

it was only asking you to remember what you were before you broke.


---

There is a place within the soul
where silence sharpens—
a thin line
between what heals
and what holds.

Dark does not storm the gates—
it whispers.
It flatters.
It fragments.
It wraps comfort around confusion
until the soul forgets
what it was made for.

It comes dressed in care—
as though it exists for her well-being.
And once she believes this,
its voice becomes the plumb line—

and the Light begins to look like harm.

Light does not chase.
It stands—
unyielding,
bright,

asking only that you come whole.

But she could not rise
without tearing
from the softness
that held her shattered--

It came not with fury,
but with hush..
a hush that mimicked care,
whispered warmth
into her wound,
and called itself safe.

Its words made her flinch from clarity,
taught her to turn
from the ache
that never lied.

So she sat
at the edge of her wound,
fed on honeyed lies,
unable to stand
before the fire
that would have made her whole.

The venom stayed warm.
The light remained still.

And the silence in between
was not yet a verdict—

   only the shape
   of a war still being named.

There is a hush
that opens behind the hush,
where breath is no longer
taken in,
but given.

A mouth made
only for receiving—
not food,
not air—
but something finer
than sound.

It happens in the stillness
between moments,
when hope ceases
to lean forward
and simply
arrives.

There,
behind the chest
and deeper still,
are lungs
that do not breathe
until spirit finds them.

They do not swell
for want—
only for wonder.

Somewhere in the unseen,
the Breath of God
hovers.

And the lungs—
those deeper ones—
wait with necks craned
like mystics beneath
an unseen window,
opened only
by grace.

Not every wind is of earth.
Some are shaped
to fill the holy hollows
in a soul made ready—
a mist that sings
without voice,
without name.

And when it comes,
you do not speak.
You expand.

There are paths you don’t choose
but find yourself on,
waking one day to realize
you’ve left the voice that once
called you home.

There are people—
beautiful, bruised,
who touched the hem of healing

and stepped back

as if love would demand too much.

And I wonder how God handles
the slow disaster
of the almost-return.
The ones who knew,
who felt,
who started to lean in—
but didn’t.

Does He grieve
like a father who watches
his child walk past the open door,
too ashamed to knock?

Or does He simply wait—
unmoving,
unchanged,
burning with a stillness
only eternity understands?


Because I still ache
in the temporary.
I still hold their names
in my prayers
like broken glass
pressed into palms
that would have held them whole.

a story of firelight, clarity, and the homecoming of a soul back 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—
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,
their 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
just surviving.
No longer  the little girl
forced to apologize
for her very own existence.

Or exploited  by others
for the beauty that is within her

   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 carnival is loud.
The voices rise in competition,
each one pulling for the crowd’s attention,
each one demanding to be seen,
to be known,
to be applauded.

But none of it lasts.

The bright lights will flicker,
the tents will come down,
the applause will fade.
And the ones who built their names
on the roar of the crowd
will be left alone with their silence.

You feel this, don’t you?

The moment after the rush,
when the thrill of being seen
is not enough to keep you full.
The moments between performances,
when you are left with yourself.
You have felt it.
And because you have felt it,
you cannot unfeel it.

That is the nature of truth.

It does not beg.
It does not force.
It simply remains,
waiting for you to turn toward it.

But not all will turn.

Some will sell the last of themselves
to the carnival,
to the barker’s voice,
to the fleeting thrill of attention.
Some will press their hands over their ears
until they no longer hear the call at all.
Some will attempt to crucify what unsettles them,
to keep the show running.

And yet, truth stands.

It does not chase.
It does not barter.
It does not make itself smaller
to be more easily held.

It remains,
whether you turn today,
or tomorrow,
or never at all.

For life does not demand.
It does not entertain.
It does not offer a show.

It simply waits.

And in time,
the waiting will be yours
to bear

Sparkles and stars,
there is a brilliance in the sky
and a darkness, all around it

Child of wonder
child of Light
Oh my Lord, child

Please hold on tight

The worst of monsters
come out at night
A wingless child

Cannot take flight

Wonder, young child
Let the Light  in you
emit from your wild

Chasing all you have known
that causes  such fright

A grass covered field
A rolling, green hill
On your back,  you look up

To a sky, brilliant blue

Until the blue  I see
becomes the vastest  of oceans
now, below me

On a windless, cloudless day


Wonder, young child
And watch all the monsters
float away