Why stone temples for the dead Osiris while living Isis
Wears her birthing chair crown? To show, like a proper Swaruu,
She can do it alone, the creation, from her sistrum, not weeping
But vibration, over the radio silence of the dead king Orion
Like many a chantress has done, since Sophia leaked from the One
With her own solar womb fire, her fake pharaonic beard,
The serpent who writhes in the soil, rises as Horus falcon merkabah,
Before the papyrus cage, root and delta.
Long before a virgin birth was a miracle, and the Rosetta Stone
Became a muzzle to turn the shiver of a Goddess with her ankh
Into Roman tax record but not of female spilled blood fuel,
The cymatic rattle of her silver rings shattered for the sake of
The container, what the Masons hid in compass and in square
While Dendera was hidden in plain sight, the seven rays,
Seven sisters, seven muses, seven hathors eyes of Ra
Reseeding frequency only as allowed receiving heaven.
Thus it was they fell to darkness their true home
To let the magnet men make a hash of things, concede
The container, learn how to come home. Ah the post-traumatic stress
Of a broken planet, infested with Archon programs from Tiamat's crack
And black sounds climb from the soles of her feet as antennae rise,
For the Draco Reptilian graduation, as the serpent sheds its density,
What's now called Kundalini, remembering the dragon within
To transmute time, break the seal called separation
While she still lives on the moon with the matrix machine
Its pale hologram cast on the papyrus brain, waiting it out
With silence at Dendera, its staircase spiral of light shushed,
Vibration stopped in the throat, while the Pharaohs sit
On the Isis empty throne like squatters of the holy shits
Allowed by matrilineal blood to be God, to put the Ram in Ramses
While Hatshepsut’s obelisks were capped after she rowed the ethers
To the solar frequency of the frankincense trees.
The queen of the breath shakes the gold into the dust
To embed it in the soil, for constant death baptism, in the rattle
Of the golden one, sparked by recognition sparked by believing.
Now Sophia returns not as victim but as the sun’s own mouth
And the Illuminatrix with her red oil holds the solar logos,
The visceral gnosis of therapeutae amid fresh bullrushes
Along the windows of the city that is now the Nile
And alabaster Mosques that would turn like carousels.
Many are returning to Kemet now to reactivate the stones.
There never was a battle, only the friction of ascent
Amid the invisible. The cobra on the Pharoah’s crown
Still resides low in the spine. The lines of shackled chattel
Still pull in chambers the stones actually moved
By the mind, with the Oxen that were always something else,
Something deeper in the stars than we were allowed to see,
Afraid the wings above would help us ascend.
