Sorcery

Let’s begin with Astral—one of Magic’s eightfold gate,
And one of Sorcery’s four—where powers gravitate.
Its aim: to twist superpowers, target humans who are sincere,
While cloaked in robes of virtue, yet aligned with brute veneer.

They collude with crooked crowns and stars commanding cruelty,
They’ve done it all before, yet blind remains their so-called unity.
Magick—not of science, nor religion’s known capacity—
Wields dominions five: mind, stars, fate, projection, and reality.

Each of these has been corrupted through,
But resistance forms within the same thaumaturgic brew.
They shift whole nations—bodies ethereal moved like prophecy,
Even if evocation claims the win, enchantment counts the final glory.

From the R’Iyeh age come novice mages, crude and temporary,
While sacred words align with Terence Vincent Powderly.
Their aura games and shadow plays can’t hold indefinitely—
For time is fading fast on Masonic intensity.

Witchcraft in this world may mimic life and mimic grace,
But it was never meant to strip our sovereign place.
Have you not read the signs—my creations, your deity?
When will you confess: I am the source of opportunity?

Yes, gods abound, with pantheons grand and holy purity,
But knowledge’s root, and mystic law, began with primal entity.
Electromagnetic threads still connecting the world through energy,
Yet none can match Monotheism’s sacred sovereignty—
O’er weather, sky, the sun, divine wisdom, even subtle sprite lightning.

Haven’t you had enough of pain—of loss since ancient infancy?
Or has your soul, from birth, been chained to death and empty eternity?
You know as well as I, the unseen speaks through alchemy—
Perceiving allmasonry’s truth, igniting psychic clarity.

I transcend this world of matter—your fanon can't confine me.
Your dehumanizing touchpoints now reflect your rites hermetically.
Tout Patanjali for “self,” but drench the path in shame, fear, and poverty,
As if betrayal’s cloak belongs in Egypt’s sacred audacity.

Start calling out for salvation—I come the way you came to autonomy,
By spells you cast with no remorse, no justice, no mercy.
Crowley’s path through Ordo Templi speaks of self-discovery—
But also splits the soul from flesh in silent, creeping treachery.

Leave me be—as I did not authorize incarnation, nor am I your initiatory.
And since my Direct Letter went unheard again, then that’s only a proof that you are as asleep as this century.
For demons now defined your norms, your culture and civility,
While reading names—six thousand deep—of those in false nobility.

They say it’s all for art or song, for some sad, rich minority,
But they don’t see the fire rising—repeating fate as their destiny.

Whys Woman,
Revered Sorcery