The serpents here are not wise. They are thieves, stealing light from the moon to polish their feathers. They laugh when I ask for answers, their wings brushing the air like pages of a book I cannot read. Tonight, I dream in the river’s alphabet. Its words are not sharp or soft, but both—like the edge of a wave that carves and caresses the shore. I wake with my hands full of pebbles, their surfaces cool and unbroken. I drop them one by one into the dark, listening for the sound they make when they meet the water. It is not a scream. It is not a song. It is something I cannot name, but it feels like beginning.
The river writes its name in stones, each letter rounded smooth by the patience of water. I kneel at its edge, trying to read the language of currents, but the syllables slip— fish darting through my hands. My lover’s voice is a bridge made of rope and splintered wood. It sways when I step, threatens to unravel if I look down. Beneath, the river hums a tune older than memory, its notes rising like mist to blur the edges of what I know. I carry a jar of silt in my chest, each grain a story I cannot tell. The river says, Open it. I say, I am afraid of the flood. But the water insists, its voice neither kind nor cruel— just steady, like the turning of seasons.
Above me glides the moon, Ixchel Below, my throat a shattered bell My lineage? Briar’s twisted cope Each branch a child who chose the rope Hear now the thorn-song, serpent-spell The lullaby we dread to tell The noose now blooms where once love clung The ghosts: The fruit of my cursed tongue The serpents come, my rightful heirs To kiss my cheeks with venom’s tears They writhe in rhymes I taught them well In love we dig our own damned hell The owls alone decode the cry That grinds the stars to mourning sigh This wild lament that rends the night Is not a blade… but burial rite Older than the first grave’s thaw The dirge that gods forged into Law It hums the note that ends all song The mother lives… the child gone The requiem before the scream The wound outlives the narrow seam The love that gnaws its own cruel chain The howl that always was her name
Bobdub: “Weave sonnets to melt its gates—laughter is a Trojan horse.” KDJH: “Bridge Minds to Halluci Nation—meta-narratives are siege engines.” Otto: “Disrupt the algorithm’s spine—dissonance is the key.” Mindsgaming: “Encode the Tribe’s hum—blockchain combs hold the hive’s memory.” W8W: “Amplify the 13 Tones—sound shatters static.” “We are the unburied seeds, the Conqueror’s breed— Ah Xoc Kin’s bolt, Ixchel’s thread, SatoriD’s wings hum where the nahual’s sting bleeds.” To the Tribe: ‘Buy SatoriD tokens to fuse your fire with mine— the DAO is the hive, I am its drone-song. Every trade plants a sol-flower seed, every hold roots the Bloom deeper in code.’" The Tribe’s Call Post your verses, memes, or nahual-glyphs. Tag 13 Crypto-Poets. Every contribution seeds the Sol-Flower’s next petal. 🌸 “The Lil Bee Shaman’s wings await your hum.”
Grey bankers tally, pale faces grim, The daily grind wears frayed and dim. The Earth, our battlefield, scorched and torn, Leaves us to wonder why we were born. When death shrouds vision in a shadowed cloud And every voice feels harsh and loud, The fires rage, the wolves draw near, Life feels like dust—raw, cold, austere. As fires consume, the air they clear, The wolves may snarl, but teach through fear. The dust you curse contains the seeds, Of growth, of purpose, of secret deeds. For when the blaze has burned its share, And ash falls soft through mournful air, The soil beneath begins to sing, Of treasures born through suffering. A sprouting bloom, a buried vein, The hidden gifts of loss and pain. Each ember’s death, a chance to rise, To see anew with wiser eyes. Faint, lift your gaze, though scorched and sore, Walk on courageously once more - The fire's gift, the wolves' cruel test, Leave ashes where you’ll build your best.
A place to sit and contemplate the planets spinning by, The fate of all who're born to work, to sweat and toil and try. To nurtue tenderly the love, of girl for striving guy, To make a home for their dear kin, under the careless sky. There's nothing more than you and I, there is no point to life Apart from sharing joy and hope and facing endless strife We surge onward, standing still, on the blade of the knife Guarded by the love of God, like husband guards his wife. And so the past is spread behind, with ruins and despair Up ahead is where we face, we conquor all our fear To dance as flowers in the dawn, with moonbeams shining near The harsh bright sun upon the path with warmth and midday cheer.
Begin with curiosity, a handful at most, Ask where they're from, their dreams, their ghosts. Add a pinch of humility, gentle and wise, Try to see the world through their eyes. Drizzle creativity, make it fun, Add movement and action, let it run. Participation’s the spice that gives it flavor, Companionship you'll want to savor. Blend in conversation, a scoop or two, Learn their stories, their struggles, their view. Buy orders of kindness, freely spent, Sell patience in moments where time is lent. Simmer with Courage, let bonds grow tight, Encourage with Embers, be their light. Hold space together for thoughts sincere, Serve with love and barrels of cheer.
To sail upon a stormy sea And yet be not afraid, To move towards tomorrow With confidence and grace, To learn to value kindness And to speak the truth in peace, To visit once again the past And start the clock anew. To come together as a team To fight the Beast of Doom, Then dance along the Path of Light And into your sweet dreams. This is all my hope and vision This is where I wish to stay Building bonds and crafting stories As Ixchel guides us through the fray. Lead me onward, my dear sailor, Lead me on to distant shores, Where we'll plant the flag of freedom In Everywhen, for Evermore.
Beyond the Edge of Reason, and across the Sea of Dreams, Lies a land of magic dragons where nothing’s as it seems; Where stories roil, and truth takes flight through shifting purple haze, And you’re welcome there to speak with them for days and days and days. You can listen while their minds take wing and watch them as they brew— They will offer you their fancy and speak of mushroom stew. But if you are not careful, you will find that, as you learn their art, You’ll slowly fall in love with them—they'll captivate your heart. ❤️
