Alchemy Between Lines
The heart is the oldest altar. Every poem is a prayer offered to its fire.
This is a communication of spirit, not only mind. I should not only have to satisfy reason, I should have to lull and charm her.
I should have to bring positive countenance to that good warder of your home before she would allow me to enter it.
Just as I had to mesmerize myself with the cadence of these lines before I could make them express a part of my nature, so in turn must you, the reader, feel some essence of undefinable magic before you could appreciate and enjoy my poetry to the utmost capacity of your nature.
“You’re after the haute-couture of your soul”
Humanity does not merely behave as a child of nature, but rather as a stranger in it. Our basic feeling is fear but not the biological fear that animals feel. It is a spiritual, cosmic, and primeval fear bound to the secrets and riddles of human existence. Markin Heidegger called it the "eternal and timeless determinant of human existence" a fear mingled with curiosity, astonishment, admiration, disaffection - the feelings that perhaps lie at the basis of all our culture and art.
We are the fruit of their sacrifices, we ought to offer them spoils of our ascension.
The Witch, in a general sense of the word, ought to be understood as having existed ever since humanity developed true imaginative capabilities, and can only be expected to expire with the final breath of the last woman.
"The Ones Who Return at Night"
There are some who find the hidden doors..
not by force,
but by the ache between thoughts.
By the way a page folds itself
at just the right line, just the perfect time.
They don’t ask permission…
the symbols speak first.
A cracked seal,
a moth-eaten sigil,
a footnote with teeth.
They follow lanterns made of charm
forgetting why they came,
until it no longer matters.
There are names they never say aloud,
but carry behind the tongue
like wine forbidden
or prayers they half-remember
from a past life.
The forgotten half uncovers itself.
And when they read,
they do not scan.
They dive into the ocean of their heart
They open the cage behind their ribs
and let the poem step in.
If this found you,
you’ve likely been here before.
Maybe in a dream,
maybe in the firelight of someone’s eyes.
Now the veils are thinner.
And you’ve noticed
how certain sentences
pull your breath from you
like a tide coming up from below the sand
Into a timeless abyss of pure, light.
“I’ve flown with fire. Why would I sit and talk about weather?”
It’s from اللّٰه
