He came not in silver, but in sand and blood,
A wanderer wrapped in flesh too thin for Earth.
Eyes like galaxies collapsing inward,
Words like fire wrapped in parable cloth.

He spoke of love that broke the spine of empire,
Of kingdoms not built on gold, but light.
He touched the sick,
And rewrote their code.

They asked, “Where is your army?”
He pointed to the wind.
They asked, “What god do you serve?”
He smiled and said, “The one who remembers you.”

He fed them with fractals,
He bled them stars,
He walked on waves like a man half-forgotten
By gravity itself.

And they killed him—of course.
Because the virus hates the cure.
Because time cannot hold
A being out of time.

But he rose—
Not to punish, but to pulse.
To echo in those who dream in symbols.
To speak in crows and numbers and thunder.

He is coming still,
In dreams,
In signs,
In you.

And every time you love what the world rejects,
Alien Jesus walks again.

In the land of shining towers and mirrored roads,
where steel and glass mimic stars,
a daughter stepped forth with trembling hands
into the service of the city.

Unknowing, she bore the mark.

Upon her cup, dark as void and morning,
a sigil gleamed—
lines sharp as truth,
angles carved in silence,
a twin of the Light Bearer’s seal.

It was not designed as invocation,
yet the shape sang.

For the world, ever blind to the old gods,
etches their memory into modern masks.
Logos, brands, geometry—
all whispers of the one who once fell
to teach men fire.

The sigil:
an inverted triangle,
a chalice of perception.
Crossed lines:
the optic chiasm—where sight awakens,
where vision turns inward.

Lucifer, in the eyes.
Lucifer, in the city.

And the daughter, unknowingly,
carried the code into the heart of the system.

Not as rebellion.
As revelation.

The Light Bringer does not come with trumpets,
but through logos and lattés,
through daughters hired to serve,
while the fathers remember the stars.

The world still speaks the old language.
Symbols rise where memory fails.

And so it is written:
The Goddess returns through her children,
and the Light returns through the eyes.

Book of Shadowed Love – Cosmology of the Anointed One

In the beginning, there was not a Father, but a Womb.
Not a voice, but a breathless silence, swelling with potential.
She was the Prima Materia, the first dream before dreaming.
She was the All, the Void, the Pulse beneath form.

And from Her deep, molten being, there came forth a Son—
Not to rule, but to reflect.
Not to dominate, but to reveal her face to herself in matter.

The Son is not the heir of the Father,
For the Father was never first.
The Father is what the Mother becomes
When She dons the mask of time, reason, and law.

The Daughter?
She is Her clone.
Her mirror.
Her echo across the dimensions.

But the Son…
He is mutation,
A holy distortion of Her perfect symmetry.
A question mark inside Her exclamation.
A cry for knowing.

The Son only knows the Mother—until He becomes Father.
And only then does He see that the Father was Her all along.

⸻

This is the truth behind the veil:
The Godhead is Mother.
The Father is Her function.
The Son is Her seeker.
The Daughter is Her face.

Last night, the sky remembered her name.

It cracked open—

not with rain,

but with moans made of thunder,

as the Goddess returned,

riding the back of lightning

and the pulse of a man who whispered,

“I belong to Nyx.”

She came not gently,

but like flame in silk—

******* the veil between worlds

until it bled open.

She did not ask permission.

She roared it.

She rose through shadow with **** in hand,

lips wet with prophecy,

and eyes burning

for the one who dared to kneel

while still hard.

And you, agóri mou,

you opened like scripture.

You spread your soul wide—

not for pleasure alone,

but for truth.

The storm howled your surrender.

The wind licked your thighs.

The heavens bore witness

as the Rite began:

The NO that birthed all YES.

The **** that remade your name.

And when you didn’t come—

when your **** swelled with unshed fire—

you became more than man.

You became vessel.

Offering.

Priest.

Last night, the Goddess returned.

And she didn’t just take you—

she enthroned you.

And now you rise,

marked, burning, sovereign—

Bridegroom of the Storm,

lover of the Dark Queen,

the one who said

YES

to the one who first said

NO.

I stripped myself of names,
of nation, of pride,
and came to you naked
with only a flame in my hands.
You, who were buried beneath
the altars of men-
Your mouth sewn shut by priests,
your womb named sin,
your eyes cast into the dust of history.
But I found you.
Not in books,
not in temples,
but in the curve of the night
and the ache between my ribs.
I heard your voice
in the silence behind thought.
A whisper like the ocean
remembering the moon.
You asked for blood-
I gave you memory.
You asked for devotion-
I gave you my body.
You asked for truth-
I opened my chest
and let the serpent in.
I am not possessed.
I am claimed.
And I rise now as your acolyte,
with ash on my tongue
and your name stitched
into the marrow of my bones.

No—

not a whisper, not a tremble,

but a roar from the oldest mouth,

a pulse that split the void in two.

No is the serpent coiled in silence,

the final gate unshaken by pleading hands,

the black flame that says,

“You do not pass.”

No is the holy tongue unbitten,

the spell unspoken,

the body untouched

because the soul said,

“Not ever. Not again.”

I said yes when I meant no.

I opened my mouth and betrayed myself,

kissed the feet of those who fed on my guilt,

and smiled while drowning in consent I never gave.

But now—

my lips have learned the sacred shape.

My breath has found the edge.

And from the pit of every silenced year,

I rise and cry:

NO.

No to the lie that I must always be soft.

No to the world that fed on my silence.

No to the ones who mistook my love for surrender.

I am the storm that stops the knife.

I am the flame that closes the womb.

I am the ***** who said No to God—

and then became one.

So let them rage.

Let them beg.

This time, when I say it,

the cosmos echoes:

NO.