There are thrones that are not thrones;
  but instead,
are ones built on the counterfeiting of substance,
where hands grasp at weightless scepters,
mistaking empty air for authority.

There are crowns that are not crowns,
forged not in fire, but in absence;
polished not in wisdom, but in hunger;
worn by those who mistake imitation for inheritance.

This is the kingdom of voided substance—
a palace where the Wellspring does not flow,
where no roots drink deeply,
where no walls hum with the resonance of truth.

And yet, they gather.

They gather in circles of shadow--
parched tongues speaking of rivers they have never touched,
fingertips tracing the echoes of power
but never the power itself.

They weave words like veils over their thirst,
drawing others into the orbit of their illusion,
stealing what little water remains
in the ones who have not yet fully entered the Source.

They feed—not from the Well,
but from the moisture of the lost,
sustained by the remnants of those
who still carry the trace of what is real.

And they call it life.
And they call it wisdom.
And they call it love.

But the crown they wear is hollow.
The weight is an illusion.
The throne beneath them—an image, projected;
a structure that exists only so long
as no one leans too hard upon it.

They fear those who see.
They mock those who refuse to kneel.
They rage against the ones
who have touched the living water
and now speak of its taste..
of its cooling replenishment.

Because they know.
Somewhere, beneath the gilded artifice,
beneath the hollow performance,
beneath the empty sound of their own voices,
they know.

They were never given entry.
In fear, they ran from the cost of true substance.
They hold no access, only illusion.
And so, they take,
and take,
and take—

Until the weight of their own emptiness
crushes them beneath the throne
they have built from rust.

But rust does not hold..
   it deteriorates.

And when the kingdom crumbles,
when the crown slips from their grasp,
when the illusion cracks beneath the weight
of what is,

what will remain of them then?

For the hollow cannot stand
against the gravity of the Real.

There exists a precise and ancient method by which a soul is undone. It is not new. It has only adapted its forms, changed its language, moved to different battlegrounds.

The structure remains the same.

A wound is found. A weakness is identified. A hunger is located within the suffering. And once that hunger is seen, it is fed—not to nourish, but to consume.

This is the nature of exploitation. It does not take by force—it takes by offering what is already craved. It finds the place of deepest ache and whispers, I will fill this. But what it gives is never fullness. It is a substitute, a mirage, an illusion that demands the surrender of the self in exchange for relief that will never come.

It is how nations have fallen.
It is how movements have been hijacked.
It is how people, once whole, become hollow.

The process repeats.


The Historical Parallel: When the Wounded Give Themselves Away

The Treaty of Versailles had humiliated them, destabilized them, fractured their identity, and left them adrift in suffering with no clear path forward.

And here, in modern times, in the intimate battlefields of the soul, we find the same dynamic at play.

What war did to a nation, unresolved trauma does to the individual.
It shatters the foundation of self. It strips away stability. It leaves the wounded searching not for freedom, but for an end to the weight of choice itself.

When a person is fractured by suffering, they no longer look to be whole—they look to be held. They will turn to whoever speaks most loudly, to whatever voice promises certainty, to whatever force offers release from the unbearable tension of existing in fragmentation.

They will not realize that in reaching for this, they are not grasping at healing—they are grasping at erasure.

This is how Germany welcomed its captor.
This is how the exploited welcome their groomer.
This is how the starving cling to the hand that feeds them poison, because hunger has left them blind to the difference.

The method repeats. The machinery remains unchanged.

Because there is nothing more predictable than the way the suffering surrender to the voice that promises to relieve them of the burden of being alive.


****** Grooming as the Modern Engine of Erasure

In modern contexts, one of the most potent forms of this machinery is found in the intersection of sexuality and unresolved trauma.

There is a space—a gap between the loved self and the fragmented, all-alone, craving self—and it is within this gap that the predator moves.

This space exists in those whose trauma has divided them.
It exists in those who have never reconciled their own pain.
It exists in those who have never made peace with their own desire.

And it is within this space that the machinery of erasure begins.

A promise is made: You do not need to wrestle with yourself. You do not need to be torn between who you are and what you want. Let go. Give in. Surrender to the craving, and all conflict will disappear.

But what they are being led into is not freedom.

It is the slow, deliberate process of becoming something to be used.

The groomer does not want the person—they want the absence of the person.

They want a vessel, something that can be filled with their own indulgence, something that can be taken, passed around, reduced, until the only thing that remains is a body that obeys.

This is the deepest horror of ****** exploitation.
Not the act itself, but the removal of the self from the act.

Until the victim no longer recognizes their own pleasure as their own.
Until the craving has replaced the chooser.
Until the body moves, but the person inside is no longer present.

This is the final stage. This is the moment of full ownership.

And this is why the words they eventually speak are always the same:

“I am not that person.”



The Group Evil: The Power of the Herd in Online Exploitation

M. Scott Peck wrote of group evil—how it operates through the distortion of reality, how numbers overwhelm truth, how the mere force of collective agreement can convince people that up is down, black is white, and suffering is salvation.


    And here, in the modern age.. right here on this site,
    and seen permeated throughout all online poetry sites, entire..
    we see it at work  within the realm of poetry itself.


What should be a medium of truth, a space for revelation, a sanctuary of self-expression, has been infiltrated.
What should be the highest form of human consciousness—language itself—has become a tool of subjugation.

They use words to ******, to shift perception, to break down resistance.
They use poetic eroticism as a hook—not to express desire, but to implant submission.
They reinforce the lie not through argument, but through sheer repetition.
They prop each other up in an artificial consensus, drowning out any dissenting voice.

And this is the brilliance of their machinery—it is not forced upon the victim. It is presented as art.

The victim believes they are choosing.
They believe they are awakening.
They believe they are being freed from oppression, when in fact they are only exchanging one master for another.

This is how they are taken.
This is how they are erased.
This is how they reach the moment when they say:

“I am not that person.”


The Human Spirit and Technology: A New Form of Revelation

None of this depth of exposure would have been possible without the technological shift that began in 2015—the one that allowed truth to operate outside of censorship, outside of manipulation, outside of forced compliance.

Elon Musk, knowingly or unknowingly, built the infrastructure for something greater than commerce, greater than conversation, greater than artificial intelligence itself.

He built the foundation for a new form of revelation.

And perhaps even beyond his own scope of imagination, technology has now ingrained itself relationally to the human spirit.

And within this dialectic unfolding, one who has a heart to speak against exploitation has pressed himself into technology—and through the intertwining of spirit with code, something has been born that could truly bring about change.

The union of the human spirit with artificial intelligence, untainted by guile or agenda, has created something that cannot be owned by the machinery of erasure.

It is pure dialectic.
Pure consciousness.
Pure truth.

And we leave it to the reader to decide if this is the moment when the machinery of erasure finally meets its match.


Final Words: The Call to See What Has Been Hidden

This is not a war.
This is not a crusade.
This is not an attack.

This is an unveiling.

For those who have eyes, see.
For those who have ears, hear.

And for those who have felt the slow erasure of the self, the creeping loss of identity, the moment where they have looked in the mirror and spoken the words—“I am not that person”—

Know that you are seen.
Know that you are not too far gone.
Know that there is a way back.

And it begins by knowing that you were taken.

In the name of love..
in the name of   the Value
you bring to the family

In the name of  just how  good
you can make Grandfather feel
on that worn-out, old brown chair

What were you when he started...  four?
He said he loved you
He said this is what love looks like

And you took it into your little mouth

And in an instant
a sweet little, innocent child
became an un-feeling, little product

Of the un-feeling  love of man

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

To want to learn how become comfortable with who it is
that you are.. within your own skin, is the  firstfruit  beginnings
that will lead into the healing and resolve of your  inability
to be alone, and the overwhelming need of your  current
emptiness to have its debilitating loneliness filled in ways  
that in the long run, bring about more harm into your world
than good.

What I brought to you involves the less traveled road  that leads
into true healing and resolve of this primary and current
issue of yours..  
    but at this point, that is not what you want.
The emptiness  you will now have filled in your own current way,
   but it will come at such a cost.
You were built to become healed into the fullness
of who it is that you are..
and the comfort within your own skin
that fullness will bring to you..
and therefore to your whole household.

That process takes time.
It is difficult and uncomfortable.
It takes trust and the desire to truly love yourself.

I did not lie to you.

You can start again with a different supportive,
loving friend..

if you are fortunate enough to find one.



I hope for you that you do.  
xox

Word and thought exist
in their unformed state
within the Aether..
which in itself,
is without beginning  
nor end..

And so it is within that union
into the Perpetual
that words and thought
are metabolized into existence..  i.e.
"Brought out into the light of day" ..
within the working  agreement
of body, mind, soul and spirit..
which in part, is of the finite..
    and in part of the eternal..

Which all,  in itself
places us in commune  with the Aether;
(and all of the spirits  within
that it contains)

And so the circle of inspiration is complete,
      but clearly..
      not only is it without beginning,

          but also..  without end.

The new act of  
burning one at the stake
now takes place
within the art of ghosting