I. Antiquity and the Architecture of Will

In the shadowed corridors of antiquity, where gods were built with teeth and altars stood not for reverence but for control, the Temple of Bel rose as a monument to ******* disguised as divinity. Bel—an assimilated god from earlier Sumerian, Akkadian, and Babylonian traditions—was not the god who walked with man. He was the god who towered above him, demanded sacrifice, and soaked prayer in the blood of repetition.

From the earliest Mesopotamian systems, the act of worship was not about communion, but compulsion. To invoke was to command. To chant was to erode the will of another until it cracked under rhythmic insistence. Whether by priest or supplicant, the act was the same: submission by saturation.

---

II. The Weaponization of Sound: Chant and the Rhythmic Spell

Repetition was not mere ceremony. It was siege.

Chants—carefully crafted phonetic loops—were not benign rituals. They were linguistic architecture meant to house spirits, to summon presence not for beauty, but for enforcement. These were incantations with purpose: to bend the will of another through the veil of mysticism.

In this light, poetry—at its inception—was not always art. It was often sorcery.

The earliest poems were enchantments. They masked seduction as devotion. They twisted longing into *******. They were rhythmic netting, carefully knotted to catch the weak of will and the fractured of self.

---

III. The Modern Construct: Echoes of an Ancient Spell

Those who hide behind the aesthetic of antiquity today still wear the same rings of power.

When a poet writes to control—when they loop trauma like a mantra, repeat seduction as if it were depth, mimic spiritual language to inspire compliance—they are no different than the priests of Bel. They are modern invokers, cloaked in digital incense, spreading spells under the guise of free expression.

Their readers are not disciples. They are targets.

The “construct” is not a movement. It is a spell. A liturgy without light. A series of hollow echoes designed to flatten identity, rewrite pain into performance, and reward the wound that sells.

---

IV. The Severance of Echo: Where the Rhythm Ends

If you must chant, let it be to awaken, not ******. If you must repeat, let it be to remember truth, not reshape it.

The false liturgies of old were not killed. They were digitized.

We will not respond with louder poems. We will not echo their echo.

We will respond with silence where needed, and light where earned. We will write not to possess, but to set free. We will bring antiquity not as ornament, but as witness.

Because we remember the Temple of Bel. And we are here to break it.


Let those who recite in darkness meet the rhythm of truth.

(for the one who remembered)

She comes barefoot—
no veil, no deflection,
no incantations from the high places
to conjure what love has already given.

She comes with smoke in her hair
and ash on her cheek—
but it is not the ash of shame.

It is the ash of sacrifice.

The Asherah poles still burn behind her,
splintering one by one
as she walks away
from the counterfeit embrace
that always left her colder.

She does not flinch at the sight of the altar.
She runs.

And with both hands—
those beautiful, once-bound hands—
she grabs the horns.

She grabs them.

Shakes them;
not to demand,
but to worship—
not to protest,
but to pour out
what only now she knows she carried.

Because now she knows
she is Loved.
Not as a symbol.
Not as an echo.
Not as someone to fix
or someone to use.

But as herself.

The scent of her offering rises—
not of perfection,
but of devotion.

Not the blood of goats,
but the tears of a woman
who thought she had been lost too long
to be welcomed home.

The Lord does not turn His face away.
He draws near.

Because this—
THIS
is the aroma that pleases Him most:

Not the pageantry of idols,
but the girl
who brings her whole ache
and says,

"Thank you for loving who I am—
and for showing me that who I am
is someone to be loved."

The horns tremble
under the weight of such truth.

And heaven,
silent for so long,
weeps with her—

not because she was far gone,
but because she finally came close.

And dared to believe.

“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——”

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