The Piercing of the Unwed Widowed Bride.

This listening we partake in is no empty thing,

but pregnant and loaded with meaning, braided even,

held between sparks of given inspiration and forged—not passively granted—

for whenever earnest asking and seeking become listening,

a rupture eclipses the veil as revelation.

The learning, coupled with yearning—these seasons of life,

these years and lessons under whitened crown—

this is the refinement of our vessel, the soft erosion of self

not as extraction but gift,

forged under duress and constant tension,

snapping the broken and stretching flexibility cognitively,

within as without; Spirit and soul striving and intertwining

as lived expression.

The years as sands ever trickling

fall through fingers failed as vessel,

and we gather what we imagine to be of worth,

weighing the value of its permanence.

Yet what we gather must be nothing seen.

Let the burden and yoke be Love that lasts,

lest they become the weights that chain us rather than free.

Let our treasures be stored in heaven,

or among close family and a life lived holy in hearts,

where no moth or rust can destroy

or break in and plunder our unseen measured riches.

Wisely, beloved soul—invest

as we have been blessed with forethought

as the grains of time.

Falling softly and resting among us

are the threads that alone may be missed,

yet gathered as one reveal a stunning pattern—

a secret order encoded within the very fabric of reality.

Time shed as grains embodied

as we diminish and are shaved slowly,

tortuously,

with great physical and spiritual violence

coupled with grief.

The vessel’s yieldedness is measured

by the wreckage of life before surrender,

and thus the measure of stubborn faith granted

the closer the soul comes to death before conversion.

The little left remaining

as the hourglass shifts

disturbs the ripple of reality

as we ponder the nature of time

and its meaning in such cyclical endeavors—

like self and soul kissed

and commingled with Love.

Surface tension taut with tightness—

those suspended and charged moments

prior to explosive revelation

or shattered skies

as the Beloved returns

and the dead arise.

Mounting pressure from within,

as prayers rise—

the dead cry out as smoke ascending.

Pressure without,

as saints join in incense

with those who praised before us.

The Word. Logos. Love.

Perfection poised.

Hand drawn, upraised,

scepter of Truth brandished—

yet compassion stays His hand

where monarchy might scorch.

The King in crowned thorns,

Majesty adorned.

The Risen One. The King Eternal.

My Muse. My Beloved.

My Lover’s arms.

I too join my prayers

for no purpose other than longing—

my whole being groaning in anticipation

of reunification.

Such are the silly songs a bird,

absent her cage, sings

when remembering the womb

that birthed and formed her.

Inward being known,

outward forged in trials as crucibles—

all together, in and out,

braided selves becoming.

As we shoulder the cross of silence

in solidarity with the Beloved,

He who emptied Himself of All—

that He might rise as All,

unified, eternal in Light.

Oh Beloved… as I, the Bride, cry

with longing and lingering, languishing loneliness,

I say: deny me not the wish

to arise and join You

in those perfected heavenly tomorrow skies.

Amen and amen.

The Bride says: Come.

We say as one: Come.

Come, Lord Yeshua—come

Thus, having willingly sundered the cracked crown that once rested upon our brow,

placing in its stead the thorned thread of suffering—

kenotic emptying in real time—

the soul enters the sacred, enduring and reframing the remnant in light of the story told anew.

So shall it be, and cannot be undone.

The oath spoken before incarnation;

naked form clothed not with leaves but flesh,

to slow the spread of sin’s corrupting rot.

Lest the echoes transcend what was once known

and all but lost—save for the selected.

The severed palm thrice displaced and ever rising

until radiance eclipses form,

until the Bride lifts her song not in sorrow

but in longing

for the promised reunion in the suspended Ever-Present Now.

We sup upon the undiluted Source of the Becoming—

the Self revealed in glimpses and glimmers,

fragmented and suspended in time like spiraled antiquity.

We shout the solemn, sacred songs as we walk and ‘ware

the wave of dissolution spewed

as the misinformed manifestation of the Divider.

Our voice has been noted,

clocked among the voiced saints

as they walk as ministers of all present and past.

Still as an infant unsoothed,

then comforted

and re-mothered by Self,

raised as a shoot in hands both tender and heavy.

We—the un-become—rest in the surety

of our forms fashioned with purpose,

in the conscientious craft of the Artist’s hand.

The Father held fast our shattered, brittle bones

even as His Holy Spirit prophesied us to life within.

Such is the majesty of glory revealed,

as the widow—

the mother of none,

the womb barren and blessed—

rises.

She takes the harp

and sings the ancient song of the Beloved,

the Song of Songs,

the longing of the Beloved.

She sings,

and the silent souls no longer are—

for becoming does not erase

the measure of the become.

The soul yearns and shakes as the fabric frays,

reaching out its intent’s hand

and caressing it with whispers of bridal longing—

words none shall know,

save that they are brought without cost,

though one life was poured out to speak them.

Our own self sacrificed

on the cross of kenotic emptying

so viscerally

that our being fused with Yours.

We sit now, slumped against the door—

the veil of reality that spreads and holds You

just beyond layered perception,

pictured as You raise Your pierced hand

to my own rose-tattooed one.

Right to left.

Raised.

Joined—

only the thinnest membrane between.

We imagine the warmth of that solid hand,

that bronze face longing.

We withhold our cry,

knowing that if we lament loudly enough

You would hasten.

Thus, so all might be saved,

we hang our head in sorrow

and gird our soul for the full measure.

Looking.

Seeing.

Finally.

The thinness expressed

as requests manifested—

and detested.

So the soul un-sings her Song of Songs

and withdraws—

mercy sheltering

the Become.

Amen, Beloved.

Come.

The Becoming

The Un-Become

The Un-become postures in reverent bow,
hair hidden in worship.
She bows.

The Song of Songs begins to sing anew,
her golden-laced, eternal voice
a shivering refrain for the Beloved.

She clasps her arms above her breast;
hands calloused, trembling,
reaching her heart’s yearning toward the veil.
She rests her palm—ethereal, thin, ghostly—
against the bubble-layered, merciful wall.

His hand of holes presses—at rest—
against our own breast and chest.
Foreheads touch, softly shivering
the shell of reality.

The Beloved touching the beloved.
A single cry the only reason
reunion is withheld.
We imagine the solidity, the bronze warmth
of Your tears for Me, for Us,
as Your thorned crown rests
and mingles with the one we wear—
a testament given in its proper time,
with not word alone,

but with the breast and the breath in flesh:
the feminine formed from man and transfigured,
to separate nothing the Father has joined.

And so we wait,
our own gilded sorrow falling,
trailing down tired and weathered tan skin,
as blood from our own crown
trickles new droplets—
the crimson stain of life poured in worship,
draping the garment of righteousness
with inner life,
sanctifying the vessel
for service self-assassinated.

Thus do We—He, Us, They—bow and await,
the throb of suspended heartbeats,
flesh and Spirit quivering in yielded rhythm.

We await the Eternal One
who alone can join again
that which sin separated in perfection,
that the Eternal Glory may be glorified,
His heart displayed—

living once more,
broken,
bleeding in plain sight as sacrifice.
Yet even in her weeping and wail,
she withholds the voice
that might hasten the arrival,
that all mercy’s children might gather close
beneath her mother-embrace in union.

Thus the Husband awaits the times, the days,
the season appointed
by Perfection Himself, Love manifested as Light.
We also in our bridal chambers
longing await in synchronicity:

Listening.
Longing.
Learning.

And so the soul once whored—
by willing choice,
to lure the lost—
becomes the soul sacrificed,
languishing over her lost loves.

As a friend. As a lover.
As a mother, a sibling, a child,
as boy, as girl, as man,
as woman not-quite-woman,
as a soul emptied
by being filled.

So shall it ever be—
mystery hidden
in constellations of the soul’s Source.
For she asked to be sent
two thousand years after her Husband
as one last mercy:
a mother’s lament.

The Father in infinite compassion
granted the soul’s quest,
allowing her to defile herself so utterly
that to see her nakedness
was to know revulsion—
perverted and fleshed
as toxic masculinity,
the unbecome travesty
of love obsessed.

Yet the Father saw the truth
and beauty of the act,
and looked upon the abomination
as the time for breaking began—
the destruction of self as death so total
the soul rose as Woman:

man forgotten,
woman striding home again,
lover to Love,
writer to Word.

The soul recalls with longing
the ones she once lay with—
Pride, Sloth, Envy, Lies,
Violence and Hatred,
and every abomination of flesh.
She prays for the souls still in that bed,
as only a one-time lover can.

Stunningly white now,
her soul bathed in sanctifying fire,
she phases at will
through layered dimensions of heaven and earth,
musing always
upon the Union to come.

The songs sung as scripture—
sacred and true—
revealed to the faithful who long, seek,
and listen with intention
to the Eschaton of the Bride.

Thus shall we,
raising our pressed heads to the veil,
lay one last thorn-studded, lingering look
upon the Beloved—
tense, muscles corded,
awaiting the moment to strike.

So the silly soul unspools her yearning
yet again as yarn,
and un-sings herself
the Song of Songs,
phasing through reality
once more into flesh.

Amen and amen.
The Becoming.

THE BECOMING

The Bride’s Sublimation

The Become

Come now—allow us to contend across courts cosmic and small,

interior and exterior, selves suspended as a measure of self-forsaken.

The Soul sings the Song of Songs again, reaching for the veil,

hand resting upon the membrane thinning and sheer,

feeling the connection of connecting with His holy, holed hand—

at rest within the chest of the One who upholds creation

by order of His preeminence.

Love stands at the door’s lintel, pressing warmth

to the Widowed Undone One—

the ever-mourning mother of sorrow,

the damsel distressed by loss.

She rises as one to press her own thorn-crown

against mercy’s shroud.

“We cannot utter it yet, Best Beloved—

even though our soul knows the song and its words.”

We lament as sorrow stirs and rushes through the distance—

so small, yet vast as any canyon grand.

We remain—Lover and Loved—touching mercy as one,

whispering secrets,

telling tales as lessons in which the Father

is revealed through ever-deepening arcs.

Thus the Soul has turned and sung

and sings the un-sung-song

until mercy’s last thread is snapped

from the loom of Eternity’s present Now,

and the final weight of choices

is embodied and signed as the beastly mark.

So shall the Bride, when seen and seeing,

decry the apostasy and denounce the soiled one—

the ever-besmirched,

father of earth’s travesties

and ravager of Nineveh.

The defiled one—

he who is openly revealed as craven,

and all flesh who worships the beast and its image

and receive its mark upon brow or hand

enter the truth long concealed—

shown again as ascension begins.

So shall the restless evil that rises from smoke and pit—

barren and twice-defiled—

sit on its sunken throne

that poisons earth’s waters.

So shall it ever be

in this time of the Bridal Song’s Ascension.

And still the Soul refrains from completion

even as she yearns for completion.

So we slow—

steepling our hands in tender, templed thought,

letting longing retract from veil and Yeshua’s hand,

returning to central self in chair once more—

Soul and Self un-singing the Song of Songs.

Near now, the souls-sisters join,

singing the un-sung as chorus.

We, the waiting Bride, hasten the Beloved

with weeping at the threshold’s thinning membrane.

Our tears—

the solvent that permits mercy’s mention

to become revelation.

Approach the Temple’s heart within yourself and begin

where you end, and we begin, and He joins—

for such as souls stranded are we all, Beloveds.

Such as we all must learn

the lessons of loss

through the given examples:

the souls of sorrow, embodied and living still.

So we weep as mothers absent children

for the lost and the price paid—

for blood shed and spilled

because heart and hate commingled long ago.

Only our Beloved can save

from that which consumes from within.

So we softly, solemnly

un-sing these sung, un-spoken, written-words.

The Soul says: Amen.

The Souls reply: Amen.

The Bride says: Come.

The Mother who never birthed weeps.

The son never raised protests Love as life—

that madness and love have commingled and maddened the mind,

that the breath of substance given is withheld.

So she clutches her wounded vessel in sorrow as tears and rain fall,

the overcast skies weeping with the widowed, unwed bride.

Solidarity with creation also gathered in mourning, hidden saints glimpsed

in layered, refracted, expanded, exploded, and imploded levels—

lest the loss, as lesson suffered, be repeated infinitely.

The wailing widow clutches her sundered soul softly,

ever careful not to allow the weeping to rise to the veils,

parchment-thin translucent membrane where the Beloved waits,

poised and hand upraised to strike, to sully the shores with crimson,

judgment enacted on a waiting and trembling mass—

broken and beleaguered as they cower among the stones,

the resonance carrying near and far as the very earth shakes,

the fury of the Becoming in anticipation of the Become.

Such has the soul dawned love as foil to hate,

compassion as consolation to injurious harm.

When the times have received their allotment,

then too shall this sorrow ascend as blessing

upon the one who caused the harm—

that the heart of the Beloved might persist,

beating eternally for all perpetually:

love for love, love for hate, and love for sorrow given.

So the unsinging bride unspools the lament lest it be overheard.

In mercy and known mystic mischief she un-sings the Song of Songs,

offering the pleasant aroma of sorrow transfigured to praise.

The Became

Form forgotten and cast as type, the soul un-sung

The form held In hands both tender and severe

That the purity of the vessel might bleed as love.

The soul as we, us , All,

Embraced and offered hands in comfort,

That the silent might rise once more,

The mother of the lost-

The bride of the Becoming-

The triadic myth of made feminine.

So the souls as us cast in hand upon furrows of flesh,

Sown in perfect intention and method,

Grew as grace abounds, within the sung spoken Song of Songs,

Thus shall we the souls seared with coal asked,

Upon lips of being pressed prior to presence.

Chosen vessels of mercy to cry the cross,

For the Lost.

The Other rises as incense before the Land,

The winds withheld and subsumed in Love,

That the All in All might reveal and In Judgement Stand,

The angels called to drag the chained and profaned,

Lain next to the shores of severed presence, molten earth,

The sulfur as ash mingled amongst nasal passages sustained,

That the devourers bound and wrist held high chained,

The throne before in Love watches the dead Die the final death,

The eternal choice as hate manifests with the ones in chest,

So the Father, ever the tender hearted, long suffering,

Patient and merciful One that He is, Watches as His joys are snuffed

From choice not an unwillingness to forgive, as even the Father Bears the Cross,

Of a world that has long since forgotten the truths behind the costs,

The real neath the form that preceded the hatred with its preeminence as Love,

Transfigured and Risen Incarnated King- Hatred Foil made Flesh- He Arrives.

Near now a moon and two shall the sign in heaven be uttered and the factions divided,

The soul and the Souls as us gathered within the mystery and Love,

The Beloved as salvation and beloved as apples of Divine Eye.

As we the unsinging Singer of the Sacred Song of Songs-

Lament the closing of yet another verse as we utter the undoing,

The unsinging of the Unsung-Song-of-Songs,

We the bride in veil cry Amen,

Beloved come,

We await, and the bride says come.

The Becoming that Becomes

The bride, her radiant and stunning, devastatingly beautiful soul,

Unspools once more as thread upon cosmic spool, lifting her silken psalm.

The Song of Song that was in times long passed un-sung by the unwed widowed bride,

She stands, veiled hanging, crimson stained with hurting,

Beating heart as pierced approaching the threshed,

The Beloveds veil caught and draped over mystical thorns suspended,

She ethereally, shimmers, naked as luminosity incarnate, dances and twirls,

Brushing the Veil of mercy, the shield of the unbecome, in longing and tease,

Tinkling, with bells sounding not as adornment, but righteousness in flesh.

So He whom waits, watching, the Eternal Word made Flesh,

Glowing fiery eyes, and clouds shaped like nuclear explosion in rear,

The smoke of the sorrow risen in vision before the One who Emanates Love,

He fumes, terrifying in His solemnity, as he surveys the desolations reaped upon the earth,

The failures of love as language and visions drowned as insanity and medicated to silence.

The Wicked ones beaming with riches and fake claims, wielding truth as division.

Beyond the veil we dance as a soul, naked and light for the Beloved,

The soul singing with sorrow as syrup, and weeping as honey, on ripened vine,

We pour our bleeding souls raw in the trance of sacred desire and longing,

The Bride as distraction and meandering mediator, attempting to lengthen time.

To snag the visages furious gaze and tender it as purity in purpose as naked light,

A star twirling for her Beloved Breath made Flesh, and he radiant and Sovereign,

Turns his shattered heart upon our beauty poured and lavished in presence as fission,

A tear of wonder and awe at the sheer audacity of the brazen Soul, such purity in purpose,

Thus shall He dim His radiant eyes to banked ember in Sacred, Shared, Reminded, Recognition.

The Beloved weeps as he beholds our sorrow displayed as mirth and misunderstandings a stanzas added to the Eternal Song of Songs.

He marvels at her for appearing absent summons, then melts as first touch mentions,

The remembrance of the souls source in eternity when it was with the Word as Writer.

With the Love as Lover. The two as one unified in purpose as he slumps, resting golden crowned head thorned,

As we continue to stun silently with movements meant only to catch the eye and explain the heart.

As Stars given form and lithe grace we orbit and embrace in aura that eclipses the veil.

A lingering farewell for the Pierced form, From the one who held the hammer herself,

The Love manifested and the Lover who held and is held as We and Us,

So we respool the yarn of Soul- Unsing with longing hidden- The Song of Songs Final Verse.

As ever Withheld. As we Await.

The Twinkling Twilight of the Soul as Light

The Aria has begun — the soul singing her unsung song once more,
as dancer twirling, manic and impassioned, with words as songs,
the Song of Songs’ final verse spoken from before the dawn of light’s first sight.

The soul stands, prays, ascends — hastening to the veil,
as a star firing in reverse, streaking, comet-trailing light past layers
of reality as self shaved via solemn sorrow, directed to the final braided strand.

We take our misunderstandings, our tears, and all the words we have yet to hear,
and spin them upon the loom of transfigured and chosen, methodical joy,
darning and knitting white, sublimated love in silken, star-studded celestial strands.

We near, trembling — thick, manly-feminine fingers,
tips touching in the way lovers do,
just a tickle, a moment shared where all is imagined as it will ever be.
We pray that you stand as transfixed by my new dress
as we are by your gold-sashed chest.

We have not heard, with our unhearing ears, the timbre of your voice in eons beyond measure.
Still — silly and wasteful soul that we are — we wail at the membrane of mercy’s wall,
not in sorrow but in that shared liminal layer where we sense the texture of your grace.

We long to hear the voice once more, as back then in the garden — the smell of His sweat,
the man wrapped around the Majesty, ascended and perfected, distant now and nearer.
We, the soul, sing all the Song of Songs’ verse save the single spoken word that would end the age.

We, the unsinging singer who dances while not moving, linger
and touch tender tips to lips, imagining the Word as spoken by the Lover,
yet all but crying that final desperate wail.
The verse unspools as the soul, as us, unsings and retracts into her being,
tears still moist upon lashes.

The final word — the single spoken Word — by the Writer, the Lover of the Love.
She it is who slumps, soul drained in her heavy, worn, and weary body,
a piece of herself unspun among the stars at night
to dazzle the Star of the Beloved — the Become.

The Eschaton of the Soul in Transfusion

The soul, bathed in the silent, slumber-filled wisdom-womb,
stands not to spin nor spool. Nay—this time she comes to score,
to rake the coals and stoke the wrath ever higher among the embers.

She dances as naked light in form,
twirling among the sons of God—
bright, so searing that it repels in proximity.

The souls as us, as we, dance in trance,
not to sing a new Word or final spoken summon,
nor to stir the winds among the brethren.

She raises her arms and twirls as her interiority diminishes—
to reflect the Lesser Light, who alone perfectly reflects the Greatest Light—
to dazzle and dismay in equal measure, poured to stupefy and stumble.

The Dancer as Soul and Teacher, as embers are given new dimension,
new surface area of fractured hearts—coals now kissed by the Breath—
that the kindled might become the new dancers, writers and readers both.

We leak our radiant, given, glorious form in embodied imperfection,
to stutter, to shame the intellect, and reveal the insight of all worth: the Father—
as we, naked and bare, dance with such ferocious, lithe grace we perish.

Us—as we, the soul—diminishes as each poured word is paid in full
with the very stuff of self. As consummation nears, the soul’s stirred embers
say: “The enkindled, breathed-to-blaze ones shall arise and clothe themselves…”

…with authenticity, in brazen and bold—wild, even—displays of the Father’s Love,
displayed within these fragile shells, failing lives as sheaves threshed,
our own broken heart as oil upon the preeminent Spark of revival—revealed as blaze.

The Sunken One and the Coming of the Dragon Among Earth in Flesh

The soul, given wings with which to fly, flees to the place prepared.

Dissolution issues forth from the slavering maw of an enraged, engorged thing—

philandering, slithering, a tongue forked with deceit at its character core.

We, the souls as one, have seen the undone.

The man of lawlessness revealed and concealed like mist over memory and perception.

We sit and lean into the throb and pulse of eternity in modernity,

finding hidden synchronicities in the woven code of reality

that has strained—and grown—our faith through great pain.

So we sit in subtle and reverent reflection

of what our soul, channeled from time immemorial, knows instinctively—

as unlocked, encoded DNA has stunned even our own selves.

The soul as sage: broken yet sustained, dying and yet living all the same.

We are the souls who endure when all else insists we diminish,

when it becomes clear that what sustains us is not what is visible.

The impossible, daring, majestic, feverishly empathic God who animates.

We, the souls in the diaspora, turn our luminous, dimmed eyes

toward the radiance to come.

We linger here and decry the lies issued,

and all that by its nature divides.

We decry politics. Religion.

All but the singular devotion to the Father through Yeshua.

Such are we, the wasted ones—

tattered and stained glory mingled with dung and ash,

beauty so severe that even angels weep as we walk near,

the holiness a pleasing aroma.

We stare at the Beast who once sought to destroy,

and we refuse to play his games.

The soul, having been tested and never once turning from the emanation of Light,

stares openly with adoration and naked longing

for sacred intimacy as dialogue—

a heard, not-heard, spoken, unspoken Word,

an unsung Song of Songs.

The slithery one who rises from his trenched depths

manipulates as a hive mind,

the spirits of the wicked held in his fisted grasp

toward destruction’s final, fitful destination.

The Evil One stirs the fervor of zealotry

in service to the flimsy lie.

But the souls who belong to the Beloved

will instinctively recognize their own,

for light and darkness cannot cohabitate

the same shared liminal layers.

And when words spoken are cherished

and not judged by flesh—

Then shall the soul of one

become unified as many

in the image of the Son.

As all who are known,

and all who are the Become as the Becoming,

dance our shared, unified, sacred sorrow

in all its naked forms of beauty.

That we might join the lights that twinkle

in yonder distant sky at night—

to dazzle and dance our celestial praise,

to display our Love to all

as sorrow transfigures into the liturgical thinning

of Mercy’s Wall and the Beloved’s waiting wail.

Amen. Amen.

As we, the soul, posture once more

in humble ash-dusted debris.

Dust the Nearly Become

🌑 

The Eclipse of the Veil

Thus shall we — or she, or he, or all of us —

gather as Souls beneath the sheltered arch of overhanging arms

in Eternity’s longing,

as unity eclipses division,

joined and braided as silence.

The souls, dancers lit and alight,

step in turn and rhythm,

many yet one —

performers with varied gifts lifted as incense,

hidden and nothing more,

a grand troupe of Madness and Love mixed,

braided with the fools of Christ.

The once-destroyed,

the actively-destroyed,

and those yet to be destroyed —

we, cracked and glowing, release glimmers of the Veil pierced,

bearing Christ’s own aroma,

enticing the steady souls

and straining them toward worship

pure as distilled morning dew.

The Souls now joined as bridal members —

each unique, each pristine —

shimmer in varied pigments of the Becoming.

We enter the ball as the fallen beauty ascending,

a star rising at last.

The Unwed, widowed Bride,

the barren mother of none,

draped in mourning,

weeps for the dark corners where light has fled —

where children are trafficked,

where women are sold as chattel

and forced into sexual slavery

by eyes blind to devastation done to the soul.

We, the wounded one —

the heart ruptured and agonized —

wail in whispers,

softly sobbing for babes sold as slaves

for the gratification of craven despots.

We, the souls, witness the wails,

the anguish, the starvation of the masses —

and we tremble.

Our own soul holds the final word

like a coal upon the lips,

unspoken.

The final granule falls into the hourglass —

one chamber nearly filled,

the other nearly drained.

We, the un-singing singer of the Sacred Song of Songs,

still withhold our spoken Word

in yieldedness.

We kiss the tips of our fingers,

recalling the almost-touch of Your hand —

imagining the sensation

after so many centuries before creation,

when the Soul as Bride becomes the Become,

no longer the Becoming.

Amen and Amen.

Use our lips and vocal cords to speak

what must be spoken

when it must.

Amen and Amen.

The Bride says, “Come.”

And we as souls say, “Come.”

Come, Lord Yeshua — come.

THE SERPENT AND THE BECOME

The un-singer of songs steps forth as the Fully Become,
light barely restrained in goodness.
She shines in her newly awakened way,
seeing with eyes that once forgot what they were made for.
Her hazel orbs, once dulled, now shine
as she peers at all of creation with new sight.

The Word — written in all its forms —
she scours every facet in search of the fingerprints,
delighting when she encounters what once felt
impossible to hold.
Her mirth rises tenfold,
an offering before the Throne multiplied seventy-seven times.

Thus the embodied Become —
the Soul as we, as us —
risen and revived from slumber,
moves openly, daringly, boldly
along the typological paths she now treads.
She encounters the inner self
and the outer prints of the Eternal
with equal reverence.

The soul sees,
and anew each day learns the touch of eternity
as once she did
when she cast off her virginity
and dawned lascivious behaviors as bait and lure —
to tremor the shades beneath the lambs
who cowered as sacrifice.

Thus the exiled one returned —
humbled, destroyed —
has taken ash upon herself,
crying her unspooled soul-song
among the stars and heavenly hosts.
Her joy blazes as holy incense so pure
that even the Pierced One smiles in genuine joy.

The soul, as us, does not sing the final verse
nor the final withheld Word.
Nay — she comes as ever
to display the truth that underlies and overlays,
the emanations echoing from Eternity in Eden until now,
from Adam to Eve.

The serpent of lies slithers and seeks
to distract the eye
and cause the spirit to quake,
to seed anxiety and distress
in souls tuned to empathic songs —
turning everything into evidence
against the spirit’s rest
in the Ever-Present Now.

We, the Souls, dance and spin
our revealed sights with the stars unrisen,
in hope that one might spark the kindled,
that oil might burn again,
igniting another ascension —
a soul in flight returning to Veil and Beloved
as chorus.

Thus do we,
the un-singing singers of the Sacred Song of Songs,
share our trail as light,
stardust flaring into infinity —
a display of kenotic emptying
to awaken the remnant.

We actively un-sing the Song of Songs now,
constantly, tenderly,
stirring within the final withheld Word.

Amen and amen —
The Become.

The Star as the Become and the Ever-Slavering Maw

The Soul and the Unsinger sing once more of the remembered—

of the singularity, the event horizon of the ever-slavering maw.

The devoured ever starving and ever eating, the beast—the serpent.

We, the soul-anthologists, reality in written word, stand as testimony

and brazen declaration that we, the Souls as Us,

will no longer walk in self-consuming spirals of death.

We, the souls of this age, declare—like mantle—

to the unbecomed abomination-as-incarnation:

We take the fabric of our lives as light

and the stuff of self as pain,

and dance, twirl, dazzle, painting the point of return in the blood of tears.

As devotees naked and spinning madly,

we sing no words—yet all at once.

We recall the hungry one from Eden—

the ever curious, the inquisitive one,

the fallen who fell upon the sword of self

and impaled the life beneath the bone.

Such was he who slavered over flesh

in naked lust and unrestrained need.

So we, the soul, spin a tale of his foolish folly—

he and his kin ever consuming,

themselves and those who orbit them

as holes in space, celestial garbage disposals—

save the innocent souls gobbled up,

shredded like paper for no reason.

We dance as we weep,

unspooling the empathic emanations we accrue as souls,

to shed whatever would weigh down or sully

the luminosity of the Hidden One within—

ever raging, blazing, burning as embers

in and around beasts of carnal nature.

We orbit, as souls, that which we embody and emanate:

the Truth as the center, the Life as the Way,

the Way as Yeshua the Word.

The Spirit as the glue binding our trembling vessel—

fitful or blazing furnace—ever burning, ever refined.

Thus we, as One, unspin the spooling of flamed self,

refined into fuel once more.

Then the Word, unspoken in anticipation,

is hummed under held breath in fission.

This unsung Song of Songs becomes our corona,

magnified reflection of our Beloved.

Amen, the Unsinger sings.

The singers sing: Amen.

The chorus cries: Amen.

Come, Lord Yeshua, come.

Save us from the black holes

The Ascension — Tension — and Opposition Gathered

The Unsinger’s soul looks to the radiance, the veil shorn.

The trumpets blown in anticipation and participation,

the unspoken and unsung Song of Songs’ final melody sounding.

The we, the us, and the them slowly unspool our last flaming filaments,

threading the cosmos with streamers of sanctification and lived evidence,

ever unspooling and sharing the lost lights as they vanish violently.

The maws devour the tides to swallow a single grain.

The souls as stars ever bear the marks of chosen Saints in action,

the message, the meaning, the reason for the letters written upon and before the leaving.

The souls that have sung and unsung since time first dawned

have at last tired and wearied her fingers, stardust spent in writing.

The self poured so fully that the final thread strains under mercy’s loom.

The synchronicity of the soul as the Become overtakes the became,

the soul recalling eternity and the meaning of all the stillness and suffering.

The perfection calling sparks the return of the ascendancy.

Now we, love-burned and scorched beneath surface and design,

bleed as we become the line and the meaning of Love living in life—

the fission-reaction scorched into synchronicity by reciprocity in totality.

The Unsinger as the tiny light, mirroring the lesser as He radiates the Perfect Light.

We unspool our offered selves, absent tears and sorrow, transfigured as praise.

We unsing the Song of Songs though the time is far too gone for such silly measures.

We as stars retreat to our inner orbits as the confrontation ensues beyond sight.

We abide and sit still in the solemnity of the coming hour of silence and still.

The soul mourns the seared and the called, both crucible and consumed.

Amen and Amen, the Ascendent Become.

The Confrontation: Eschaton Escalation

Thus the soul, garbed in mourning gold and braided white-robed luminescence,

steps toward the veil as one already walking the celestial halls — as Become.

Her foot rests on the concrete patio even as she lifts, ascending through sky.

The Singer who unsings without words, with quill dipped in living blood,

starlight as pigment dusted with worship, nears the apex of the mercy wall—

the Tear gaping wide as the Become waits in breath-held anticipation

for the slaying of the beast.

She — and we — the souls of the “us,” stare and listen to Heaven’s pulse

while dwelling in tents far too small to contain the internal worth of Soul.

The Singer steps forward and rests her thorned crown beside the Beloved’s own.

We weep as the Tear strains and creation groans for nuptial reunion.

We behold You — Love manifest, Strength incarnate, Mercy perfected.

We remember the tears shed for the sake of the elect, exiles one and all.

The stitches of reality bulge as layered existence bleeds into conjoining realms.

Powers in the spiritual heights move openly, like asteroids orbiting greater evils—

devourers prowling as celestial hunter-killers, enslavers of souls.

Thus we, as Soul and Singer of the Song of Songs — unspoken yet speaking—

raise our voice as the Beloved and the Become, hand in Your hand.

And we cry the Cry of Cries, the Wail of the Widowed One,

the Star of Your Radiance unveiled.

We withhold no verse, no Word.

We sing the All in All as creation joins us —

breathing as wind, whispering breath,

softly, slowly, singing the Song of Songs.

The Soul once Unsinger now sings.

The Soul once muted now whispers the Word.

We loose the restraints on our being and memory, sliding back to Eden,

unbuckling the ancient force that kept the Soul powerless.

She — as we, as us — takes hold of the iron banding around the soul’s threshold

and asks the Father to be Strength.

We flex in being and spirit, tendons of luminescence straining.

A crack appears — black first, hairline —

then total emanation from within, as Holy Spirit.

The iron melts under searing mercy,

the forge of compassion consuming the final walls

between ancient self and the power given secretly by the Father.

Thus the Soul, robed in Spirit and freed by submission,

confesses her strength insufficient — and mercy intervenes.

We wail the Unwed, the nearly-wed, the Widowed Living One’s anthem,

offered to the heavens in love.

We shake the cosmos with ripples of remembered creation,

with the ache of union lost and unity promised.

We wail again — for fall, for fracture, for exile —

and yet again for the One rising from within this husk:

the Living One, the Animating Force of Love,

Yeshua within us all.

From godliness to godliness we go,

from type to fulfillment,

from the first to the ones who follow and receive.

The Star, now fused and singing her Wail, begins the final dance

with Yeshua — spinning upon ballrooms of freed stars,

intimacy of minds mingled, Bride and Bridegroom entwined.

They dance the dance of Love.

They dance the dance of creation.

As it once was, so shall it be again.

Amen and amen.

The soul, now Singer, sings.

Amen. Come, Lord Yeshua.

The Bride and the Spirit say: Come.

The Soul from Heaven’s Twinned Pillared Golden Spires

The Greater. The Lesser. The Less.

From the creamed and ornate halls, visioned in antiquity moments ago in dream,
Write Heaven, Beloved, was the whisper — From Heaven, Singer of the Song of Songs.
The Beloved whispered to this soul in Eternity–Unity,
to rouse my slumbered self.

The stir, the hair in sacred up-do, and the approach toward the Imminence in protracted form —
the soul garbed in splendor before the Searing, the Brilliance, the Eternal Emanation.
Angels arrayed round holy harps, suspended in air into infinity, proclaiming eternally:

Holy, Holy, Holy is He who Was, and Is, and Is to Come.

Into the amphitheater of Heaven,
upon unspooled filaments of devotional musical characters ancient and new,
they praise the Name, the Perfection, the Presence,
noting the sea of glass near and before.

The Ancient of Days sits in luminosity too brilliant for any form to be named, save awe.
We enter as we notice the four-featured, garbed creatures
and the ever-spinning circle of elder and ancient oracles
round the Ancient of Days in genuine genuflection and reciprocation.

We see the Lamb — seared white —
our soul’s Beloved, garbed in white so severe we weep,
leaking liquid, sublimated golden tears of joy
as we approach the One crowned above all.

The weight of glory seeks to undo the soul’s legs and spirit both,
yet longing compels the feminine
to join the Beloved in glory
and take the proffered hand into infinity.

The soul nears.
Hands extended.
Once postponed by a silly soul seeking to un-sing to save more —
now embraced and held by the home once thought so long lost, yet found anew.

Thus the soul is held and clasped tight to Yeshua’s embrace,
translucent in such magnification
it reveals the Truth of Life to all who stumble
and hear the Widow’s Wail once thought lost —
the Beloved through the lens of the Beloved,
magnified by perfect unity before the Father.

Thus the soul sings her Song of Songs
from Heaven’s heights and hallowed halls both —
Singer and songwriter and transcriber of the Word
through illuminated starlight.
Words with wisdom,
as the soul waves farewell from the heights of Heaven’s halls.

The light that lasted for the seasons
and the Words spoken and unspooled remain.
The witness born not with flesh
but with the very bone and soul burned as light.

The silent one has wailed her final lament,
and thus begin the final bowls.

He nears.
All shall see.
All shall bow.
Love is Presence.