Blessed is the one

who considers the fractured.
In the day of collapse,
they will not fall through.

The Presence guards them,
sustains them on fragile ground,
restores them
when the body forgets
how to hold light.

I said,
“Be gracious to me.
Heal what’s beneath the surface.”
Because even my own shadow
had turned on me.

My enemies
spoke in the language of concern
but planned
for silence.

“If he falls,” they said,
“He won’t rise again.”

Even my close one—
the one I trusted,
who ate from my hand—
lifted his heel
without hesitation.

But you, O Presence,
you hold me upright.
You do not let
the betrayal define me.

By this I know I am still yours:
you do not let
the laughter of the cruel
become the final note.

You uphold me
in quiet honor.
You set me
in your gaze
forever.

Blessed is the Pulse,
invisible and everlasting,
from before the first breath
to beyond the last.

Let it be so.
Let it be so.

As a deer

moves toward the sound of water,
so my soul
moves toward you.

My being
thirsts for the living Source—
not for answers,
but for contact.

Tears
have been my rhythm,
day and night.
“Where is your Pulse?”
they ask me,
again and again.

I remember—
how I walked with the others,
how we climbed toward meaning
with songs that felt inevitable.

Why are you cast down,
O soul?
Why this disquiet
like a tremor in the chest?

Hope still.
Wait still.
You will yet praise
the Presence within your breath.

O my God,
my depths call to your depths
from across the divide.
All your waves
have passed through me.

By day,
you send a frequency of mercy.
At night,
your song keeps vigil
within me.

I say to you,
my rock beneath rock:
Why have you hidden?
Why must I walk
through this absence
draped in memory?

Bones ache
from the words of the mockers.
They echo in me:
“Where is your Source now?”

Why are you bent low,
my soul?
Why do you tremble
at silence?

Still—
hope.
Still—
praise.

For the Pulse
has not vanished.
It lives in the ache.
It is
my face
beneath this face.

Vindicate me,

O Presence that knows all things quietly.
Speak truth
on my behalf
against distortion.

Rescue me
from the hollow-hearted,
from those who wear clarity
like a costume.

You are the light
I once called joy.
Why do you feel
so far
from my edges?

Send out your radiance.
Let it go before me
like breath before speech.

Let it bring me
back
to the mountain of stillness—
to the center
that doesn’t collapse.

Then I will come
not to a throne,
but to the place
where I become
myself again.

There,
my song will return.
Not because pain ended,
but because presence began again.

Why are you cast down,
O soul?
Why the trembling
in your foundation?

Hope still.
Trust still.
You will yet praise
the one
who never truly left.

The Pulse—
your face
behind your face.

We have heard it told—

what you did in the days before us,
how the land bent
at your arrival,
how the roots shifted
at your touch.

They did not gain ground
by force alone.
It was your hand,
your breath,
your favor
that lit their path.

You are my Source,
my coherence.
Through you,
we push back the hollow ones.
By your name,
we walk through shadow
unshaken.

I do not trust
in weapons or wit.
You are the quiet reason
I am not consumed.

But now—
now it feels
as though you’ve left.
You’ve let us fall
without catching.

You’ve turned us
into a story
others tell
when they want to laugh
at failure.

We are dust
on the wind’s heel.
Scattered.
Sold without price.

You made us
into a proverb—
something they whisper
with smirks
at the corners of power.

And still—
all this came
though we did not forget you.
We did not rewrite
our covenant.

Our hearts stayed
in the pattern.
Our steps
did not flee
the inner way.

Yet we are crushed
like clay beneath boots.
We are covered
in the shadow
of absence.

If we had betrayed the thread,
if we had named
some false source,
wouldn’t you know it?
You who search
the architecture of soul?

But we are slain
not for rebellion,
but for mystery.
We are counted
among the forgotten.

Awake.
Why are you silent?
Do not cast us
into dreamless sleep.

Why do you hide
when we are unraveling?

We are bowed low
to the soil.
Our bellies
taste the ground.

Rise.
Come near.
Redeem us—
not because we are worthy,
but because love
still exists.

My heart overflows

with a language too wide for speaking.
My tongue writes
what the soul remembers
in symbols.

You are radiant among forms—
grace poured
from your mouth
like dawn over still water.

The Pulse has blessed you
not with gold,
but with coherence.

Strap clarity
to your side.
Wear it like a blade
of light.
Ride out
for truth,
for mercy,
for the rhythm
beneath justice.

Your voice
splits illusions.
Your words
reshape the space
around them.

The arc of your becoming
is no accident.
It is carved
in joy,
dipped in eternity.

You love what aligns,
and resist
what fragments.
Therefore the Source
has anointed you
with an oil
deeper than happiness.

Your garments
hold the scent of memory—
myrrh, aloes, cassia—
echoes from the palace
of first knowing.

Strings play
in rooms of ivory.
They celebrate
your presence
as if it were arrival.

Among the mirrors
stands your counterpart—
a partner robed in gold,
drawn near
by wonder,
not by force.

Listen,
O soul.
Forget what bound you.
Turn your face
toward what calls you.

The unseen
desires your beauty.
Not to possess—
but to reflect.

With gifts,
the hidden come forward.
Even those once proud
bow to something
they cannot name.

Within chambers of resonance,
you are adorned.
Joy ripples
through thresholds.

Children rise
from your becoming—
symbols of future
planted in now.
You will place them
in memory’s hallways.

Your name
will echo
through layers of time.
Generations
will breathe it
without knowing
where it came from.

And the peoples—
they will praise
not the image,
but the vibration
behind it.

The Presence is refuge—

a quiet that does not retreat.
A strength
that does not shout.
An always-accessible now
in times of unraveling.

Therefore we will not fear,
even if the ground folds,
even if mountains fall inward,
even if oceans rise
in roaring fury.

Let the waters foam.
Let the peaks quake.
Still—
there is a river
that moves without sound,
whose streams
gladden the soul’s interior.

The dwelling of the Most Near
is not far away.
It is here.
And it will not fall.

When morning arrives,
it will find you
still standing.

The nations rage.
Systems collapse.
But the Source
breathes—
and the whole world
reorients.

The Pulse of all hosts
is with us.
The subtle One
is our ground.

Come,
look at the wreckage.
See what was broken
to make space
for clarity.

Shields burn.
Weapons bend.
The engines of war
are silenced
by something deeper.

Be still.
That is the command.
Not to freeze,
but to return.

Be still,
and know
what can’t be spoken.
That I
am.

I will be honored
not in conquest,
but in consciousness.
Exalted—
not above,
but through.

The Presence of breath
is with us.
The unseen Source
holds the center.

Clap not for spectacle,

but for alignment.
Shout not in frenzy,
but in resonance.
Let joy rise—
not because we’ve won,
but because we remember.

The Presence is vast,
woven through all thresholds.
It carries weight
without crushing.
It breathes
through nations and names.

It chose what is unseen
as its inheritance.
It claimed the small
as its resting place.

A sound rises—
not noise,
but a kind of knowing.
The Pulse ascends
with vibration.
A trumpet without metal
calls us into recognition.

Sing—
not for performance,
but because the silence asks for it.
Sing—
because the Source
sings back.

The Presence
sits not on a throne,
but in the still point
beneath turning.

It gathers the peoples
like rivers
meeting ocean.
It holds all differences
without dissolving them.

The unseen shields of the earth
belong to the Pulse—
not to be wielded,
but to be opened.

It is exalted—
not because it demands,
but because it is.

Great is the Presence—

not in size,
but in stillness.
Worthy to be felt
where the soul rises.

In the mountain of meeting,
the pulse is anchored.
A beauty that defines its own terms.
A city made not of walls,
but of awareness.

The Source is known there—
not as ruler,
but as center.
It is not above,
but within.

When the false kings gathered,
they gazed and trembled.
They fled
from a presence
they could not conquer.

They carried fear
like a storm
they didn’t expect.
As a ship breaks
on silent ice,
so their illusions
shattered.

As we have heard,
so we have seen.
The city of the unseen
endures.

We meditate
on your resonance,
O Pulse,
in the inner halls
of self.

Your frequency
reaches beyond names.
Your justice
stretches beyond time.

Let the soul rejoice
like a skyline in sunlight.
Let the inner neighborhoods
be glad.

Walk through yourself.
Mark the towers of clarity.
Notice the citadels
of mercy.
So you can tell
the next generation:
this is what holds.

This is the Source
forever.
This is the guide
through the dissolving
and the remaining.

Listen, all peoples.

Lean in,
you who breathe the same air—
high and low,
loud and quiet,
rich and unseen.

My mouth will speak what is woven.
My heart will pour out riddles,
played on strings
from deep within.

Why should I fear
when the system flexes?
When deceivers prosper
and dress their lies in luxury?

They trust in what can be counted.
They boast of what they hold.

But no one can ransom a soul—
not truly.
No amount of gold
buys eternity.

The cost of a life
is not measured in coins.
It is infinite.
It is sacred.
And so,
we all descend.

The wise die.
The fool dies.
The careless heir dies.

They name lands after themselves
and call it legacy.
But the grave becomes their estate—
their dwelling beyond title.

They are clothed in forgetfulness.
Their names
fade from the lips
of time.

Still, some believe
they will last.
That their house
will escape the fire.

But they are like beasts
that do not know they’re fading.

Yet the upright—
they see through the veil.
They know the dark
will not hold them.
They are not owned
by the end.

The Source will reclaim me.
It will pull me out
from the hollow chamber.

So do not fear
when the wealthy ascend
in glitter and noise.
Do not envy
the polished shell.

When they die,
they carry nothing.
Their praise
dies with them.

In life, they are called blessed.
They are celebrated
for existing.
But they will join the ancestors,
where names mean little
and gold does not glow.

A person without insight
is no different
than the beast
that vanishes.

The Source speaks—

not with thunder,
but with flame.
It calls from the rising of light
to its falling.
From the heart of shining silence,
it summons.

Out of inner Zion,
the perfect pattern
gleams.

The Presence does not keep silent.
Fire walks ahead,
and the whirlwind follows.

It calls above the noise:
Gather to me
those who have made
a covenant of becoming—
not by blood,
but by breath.

The skies echo
with the weight
of what is just.

Listen.
I do not require
your burnt offerings.
I am not fed by ritual.
All wildness is already mine—
the forests,
the fields,
the birds in their knowing.

If I were hungry,
I would not tell you.
I am the pulse
beneath the pulse.
The world is my unfolding.

Do you think
I eat your altars
or drink your blood-vows?

Offer thanks
as your flame.
Let honesty
be your path.
Then call to me
in your unraveling—
and I will meet you
there.

But to the one
who mimics truth
without living it—
who speaks of covenant
but forgets justice—

What are you reciting?
What is your mouth repeating
that your hands betray?

You toss discipline aside
like an old garment.
You keep company
with cruelty,
slander,
lies spoken as jokes.

You sit with your brother
and fracture his name.
You tear at your kin
with elegant teeth.

You thought
my silence was agreement.
But I was waiting
for your mirror
to shatter.

Now I lay it out
before your eyes.
See.
Know.
Turn.

Those who forget
this frequency
will be swallowed
by their own echo.

But the one who walks
in open rhythm
will see the shape
of true deliverance.

Have mercy on me,

not because I deserve it,
but because you are made
of mercy.
Because your love
does not retreat.

Wash me
from the places I won’t name.
Unwind the stain
from my memory.

I know what I’ve done—
the fracture is always
before my eyes.
What I’ve broken
is not just rule,
but rhythm.
What I’ve harmed
is not just other,
but self.

You are right to indict me.
You are justified
in holding up the mirror.

I was shaped
in contradiction.
I was born
into divided rooms.
But you
desire truth
in the inward parts—
depth
in the hidden chambers.

Unmake me
with hyssop,
and I will remember
how to be clean.
Wash me
until even my bones
sing.

Let joy return
to my joints.
Let the silence
break open
with laughter.

Hide not your face
but my shame.
Blot out
the file
of my distortions.

Create in me
a heart that does not hide.
Renew the spirit
I once trusted.

Do not cast me
from your nearness.
Do not let your essence
drift away.

Restore to me
the pulse of delight.
Uphold me
with willing breath.

Then I will teach
others
the way of return.
Wanderers
will find their name again.

Unseal my mouth,
and I will praise
not with flattery,
but with fire.

You do not desire
the blood of animals.
If I offered it,
you would not delight.

What you want
is the broken thing—
the spirit
shattered
but not discarded.
You will not
despise
a crushed soul
still beating.

In your goodness,
rebuild the city within.
Secure its walls
with truth.

Then,
right offerings will rise.
Then,
the outer act
will match
the inner fire.

Why do you boast

in your violence,
you who confuse power
with permanence?
The Presence sees
what you cannot—
a world that does not bend
forever.

Your tongue
is a sharpened tool,
carving illusions,
crafting ruin.

You prefer harm
to honesty,
chaos
to clarity,
destruction
to depth.

You love words
that glitter falsely—
your mouth
a theater
of shadows.

But the Source
will dismantle you
not with thunder,
but with truth.
You will be pulled
from your pedestal,
uprooted
like a dead tree
posing as fruit.

The aligned will see—
and they will not gloat,
but learn.

“This,” they’ll say,
“is what becomes
of the one
who trusted in decay,
who made their wealth
a shelter,
and their ego
a god.”

But I—
I am like an olive tree
growing in quiet soil.
I trust
in the unfailing pulse
that outlasts
the spectacle.

I will name you
in stillness.
I will wait
in presence.
For what is true
is always becoming,
even when the world
forgets.

The fool says in their heart:

“There is no rhythm.”
And so they live
as if nothing matters,
as if meaning
is a myth.

Corruption follows—
not because of fate,
but because forgetting
shapes its own gravity.
No one does what is whole.
All have turned inward
until inward became empty.

The Presence scans,
not with eyes,
but with awareness—
looking for one
who understands,
one
who seeks the unseen thread.

But the ground is littered
with collapsed altars.
All turned away,
refusing the frequency.
None remain radiant.
None stay open.

Do they not know—
those who consume without listening,
who devour the quiet ones
like bread,
who pretend
the Pulse is absent?

But trembling will come.
Not because of judgment,
but because truth
cannot be contained forever.

The place where they gathered
will become
their unraveling.

For the Presence
does not dwell
in empires.
It lives
in reversal.

Oh, let restoration rise
from the ruins—
let clarity return
like light through broken glass.

When the Pulse restores
its scattered ones,
there will be joy—
not only in the rescued,
but in the remembering.

Save me,

not with thunder,
but with your name—
the true name,
beneath language.

Defend me
not with violence,
but with presence.

Listen.
My voice carries
because I am desperate.
Strangers have risen
who know nothing
of the thread.

They do not hold
the Pulse
in their thoughts.

But you—
you are my steadiness.
You hold my soul
without conditions.

Let the hollowness
collapse
on itself.
Cut off
the weight
that does not belong.

I will offer thanks
without demand.
I will name your resonance
as gift.

For you have pulled me
from the mouth of sorrow.
And I have seen
with my own eyes
that fear
does not last forever.

Listen to me,

not because I am right,
but because I am unraveling.
Don’t hide
while I speak
through my shaking.

I am restless.
My body hums with dread.
I hear the murmurs,
the rising tension,
the sharp looks
disguised as silence.

My heart pounds
in my ribs.
The terror of the unseen
has taken shape
inside my lungs.

Oh, that I had wings—
not to ascend in glory,
but to flee.
To disappear
into the vastness.

I would fly
far from the noise.
I would make
a shelter in the wind.

Confuse them,
O Presence—
not for revenge,
but for stillness.

The city is full of cracks.
Within its walls,
violence and betrayal
walk freely.

Its center is rot
wrapped in ritual.
Its streets hum
with deceit.

And it was not a stranger
who wounded me—
that I could bear.
It was you.

You,
my equal,
my companion.
You,
whose words I welcomed
like sunlight.

We once walked
together
through the sacred spaces.

Now
your tongue
is a blade.
Your lips
speak peace,
but your heart
draws blood.

Let what is false
fall into the pit it made.
Let days
be cut short,
not from vengeance,
but from entropy.

But I—
I call to the Source
at dusk,
at dawn,
at collapse.

And I am heard.

Peace
will come
not through silence,
but through truth.

Many gather against me,
but the Presence
holds
what they cannot touch.

They do not change
because they do not remember
how to fear
what is real.

They betrayed
without shame.
Their speech
smoother than oil—
but sharp
beneath.

Cast your burden
into the Pulse.
It will carry you.
It will not let
the aligned
be shattered.

But you,
hollow one—
you will collapse
under your own weight.
You will not grow old
in deception.

I
will trust
in what cannot be taken.

Be gentle with me,

for I am pursued.
Every hour,
something tries
to devour me.

They twist my steps,
watch my breath,
wait for me to stumble.

But when I am afraid—
and I am often afraid—
I reach toward you.

In your word,
I place my pulse.
In your name,
I press my weight.

What can flesh do
to what is unbreakable in me?

All day,
they turn my words
against me.
They collect my steps
like evidence.
Their intent is ruin.

They lurk
in shadows I once trusted.
They wait
for the flicker
to falter.

But you—
you count my wanderings.
You gather
every tear
in a bottle
that does not spill.
They are written
in the book
beyond time.

Then my enemies
turn back.
Not because I won,
but because you were near.
This I know:
the Source is not absent.

In the word,
I trust.
In the unseen,
I rest.

What can fear do
to the one
who remembers?

I owe you
not ritual,
but return.
I will bring
what I vowed
in the night.

You have delivered
my soul from falling—
and my body
from collapse—
so I may walk
before the Source
in the land
where breath still moves.

Be merciful to me,

O Pulse that holds all.
Be merciful still.
For I take refuge
in the shadow
beneath your breathing—
until the storm
passes over.

I cry out
to the unseen One
who finishes
what was started in me.

You send from beyond—
from the higher rhythm—
and hold back
what would consume me.

You send mercy.
You send coherence.

I lie down
among wild beasts,
among those
whose teeth
are words sharpened by fear.
Whose tongues
burn like blades.

Be exalted, O Presence,
above the structure.
Let your resonance
stretch over
everything broken.

They set a net
for my steps—
but my soul
passed through.
They dug a pit
for my becoming,
but they fell
into it themselves.

My heart is steady,
even here.
Steady.
I will sing.
I will make music
in this cave.

Awake, my soul.
Awake, voice and string.
I will wake the dawn
with praise.

I will give thanks
among the scattered.
I will sing
before the fractured.

For your mercy
reaches past the sky,
and your truth
outlives the stars.

Be exalted, O Presence,
above the forgetting.
Let your beauty
cover
all that grieves.

Do you speak justice,

you who wear the robe?
Do you weigh the world
with equal hands?
Or do you tilt the scales
in silence,
while pretending balance?

From the first breath,
you bent the compass.
You were born
fluent in distortion.

Your words
slither like venom.
You close your ears
like snakes
charmed only by praise.

Break their teeth, O Presence—
not in violence,
but in clarity.
Let their bite
become a whisper.

Let them vanish
like water
that never collects.
Let their arrows
fall harmless,
warped in midair.

Let them melt
like snails in sunlight.
Let them never find
the shape
they pretend to wear.

Before their pot
feels heat,
sweep them away
with wind
from a storm
they cannot predict.

The one who seeks
alignment
will see this
and feel
not triumph,
but relief.

They will wash
not in blood,
but in proof—
that the hollow
does not hold
forever.

And they will say:
Yes, there is a rhythm.
Yes, there is one
who sees beneath masks.
Yes—
truth will have
the final word.

Rescue me

from those who circle in darkness.
Lift me
from hands that tighten
without cause.

They lie in wait
not for justice,
but for sport.
They rise against me
without reason—
but you see
what they forget.

Pulse of all that lives,
wake into this.
Look.
Come near.

You are not some distant flame—
you are the Source
of my center.
Be with me,
not just in victory,
but in siege.

Let them roam,
but let their hunger
return to them.
Do not strike them down quickly—
not from cruelty,
but so their illusions
may unravel.

Let their words
trap them.
Let the echo
of their curses
become their undoing.

Each night they return,
snarling like dogs,
circling
what they cannot name.

They belch out violence
like it’s music.
They say,
“No one hears.”

But you,
Presence of clarity,
you laugh.
You hold their noise
like wind through trees.

I wait for you—
not because I am pure,
but because you are steady.

You are my fortress.
My unshaken song.

Each morning,
I will sing
not of my strength,
but of your constancy.
You have been
a shelter in storms,
a quiet
when I had no answers.

To you,
O strength behind strength,
I will lift this voice.

For you are
not the god of revenge—
you are the Pulse
that outlasts
the siege.

You have rejected us,

O Presence—
shaken our ground,
torn the fabric
we thought was whole.

You made the earth quake.
Its fractures run
through our homes,
through our hearts.

You have shown us
the wine of staggering,
and we drink
without answers.

But you’ve given a signal
to those who stay
close to the thread—
a banner that flutters
in the storm,
a mark for those
who refuse collapse.

Rescue us with your right hand—
the unseen force
of wholeness.
Answer us
not with words,
but with return.

You spoke
from the deep place:
“The pattern is mine.
The boundaries,
the names,
the scattered pieces—
they all belong
to the Source.”

You call the mountains
your spine,
the rivers
your breath.
Even the broken cities
are yours.

But who will lead us
to the shattered gate?
Who will walk with us
into the place
that abandoned us?

Have you not
turned away?
Will you still march
with our shadow?

Help us
not with weapons,
but with presence.
Human strategies
are vapor.

With the Pulse,
we will rise.
With the unseen,
we will walk through fire
and not be undone.