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[uinverse369]

Beneath the ash of forgotten skies,

where suns once burned and gods went blind,

there stands a gate of writhing bone —

a throne of terror, carved from time.

The mountain breathes with demon’s face,

its hollow eyes a cosmic space.

Within its mouth, the voids confess,

old secrets born of nothingness.

A lone sorcerer — cloaked in night,

chants to stir the sleeping blight.

His book bleeds ink, his shadow bends,

as stars recall where order ends.

They say this place was once divine,

before the dawn betrayed the spine

of heaven’s vault — when angels fell,

and silence crowned the god of hell.

Now the world remembers not its name,

but whispers tremble all the same:

for in that dark, where echoes burn,

the ancient ones still wait their turn.

[uinverse369]

A rose bleeds crimson in her hair,

its petals whispering death and dare.

Her eyes — twin moons of haunted glass,

where sorrow blooms and shadows mass.

Tears of scarlet trace her skin,

each drop a sin, each breath a hymn.

Her lips, like dusk — soft, defiled,

speak silence with a sorrow wild.

Beauty and ruin share her face,

a fragile storm of grief and grace.

She stands between desire and pain —

a ghost of love the night can’t name.

[uinverse369]

Poem:

In the hush where moonlight weaves,

Through sighing boughs and haunted leaves,

A shimmer stirs — the lake’s dark glass,

As she ascends where shadows pass.

Eyes like storms, lips cold with grace,

A ghost reborn from time’s embrace.

Each droplet sings a mournful song,

Of love that drowned but lingers long.

Story whisper:

They say she waits where the forest dreams —

a spirit once human, bound by sorrow’s stream.

Those who gaze upon her rise from the lake

feel both awe and ache — as if beauty itself

had remembered its pain.

[uinverse369]

Succuby art....

Whisper of the Thorned Moon 🌑

By blood of bloom and sigh of flame,

I call the night, I claim my name.

Eyes of shadow, lips of wine,

Bind the heart, the soul is mine.

Through silk of sin and scent of dream,

I rise within the midnight gleam.

Kiss of sorrow, breath divine—

Sleep, my love, your pulse is mine.

[uinverse369]

“Demons of the Mind”

Within the skull’s forsaken dome,

Two fires rise, where thoughts once roam,

Red-winged whispers claw the air,

Feeding on doubt, despair, despair.

Their horns are roots of ancient rage,

Their eyes — the ink on sorrow’s page,

They twist the truth, they drink the pain,

And dance within the mind’s dark rain.

The man sits still — a hollow shrine,

While demons feast on his design,

A storm of chaos, calm disguised,

Where sanity is hypnotized.

In silence burns the cursed flame,

Each thought a wound, each dream a name,

For every soul must one day find,

The devils dwelling in the mind.

[uinverse369]

Vision:

In the twilight abyss, she rises — a dark seraph with wings of shadow and eyes that hold forgotten sorrows. Twin candles flicker in her grasp, their green flames whispering secrets of lost souls and forbidden dreams. She stands between light and void, a haunting beauty born of silence and sin.

Poem:

Born of night’s unbroken spell,

From hollow winds where angels fell,

Her candles burn in ghostly hue,

A soul divided — dark yet true.

Wings of silence, horns of flame,

She walks the edge, unknown by name,

Through veiled desire and cursed delight,

The queen of dreams, the child of night.

[uinverse369]

✧ The Tale of Myrrha of Felidae ✧

(From “The Book of Silent Eyes,” a lost moonlit scripture of the old ones)

Long before men learned to name the stars, when dreams still shaped the waking world, there lived a maiden known as Myrrha, Keeper of the Whispering Shrine. The temple she served was hidden deep within a silver forest, where moonlight never waned and cats roamed as spirits — silent watchers of fate.

It was said that each cat carried within its eyes a fragment of divine memory — reflections of all that was, and all that shall be. Myrrha was chosen to tend them, to listen to their unspoken tongues. Over years of devotion, her heartbeat slowed to match the pulse of the moon, and her thoughts began to flow like the eyes of the felines she served.

But as all balance must tremble, a shadow rose — the Unlight, a being of hunger born from forgotten names. It crept through mortal dreams, devouring memory and turning gaze to blindness. When the Unlight reached the forest, Myrrha prayed for guidance, yet no god replied.

So she turned to the cats — her only kin.

They circled her, eyes aflame with lunar fire, and the eldest among them — a silver-striped spirit named Aelara — spoke within her mind:

> “To guard the gaze, you must become the gaze.”

And in that instant, Myrrha offered her soul.

Her human form dissolved into moonlight, weaving itself through fur and flesh, until there remained one being — woman and cat intertwined, neither mortal nor divine, the Veiled Guardian of the Boundary.

From that night forth, her reflection was seen wherever eyes met in silence. In every cat that stared into nothingness, her spirit watched — warding off the Unlight, preserving the secret pulse of dreaming life.

It is said that those who glimpse her twin gaze — human shadow behind feline eyes — are chosen to awaken an ancient knowing: that vision is not merely sight, but a bridge between the worlds.

---

✧ The Invocation of the Twin Veil ✧

To be spoken under the waning moon, before the mirror or the watching cat

> “By eyes that gleam and hearts that bind,

Between the seen and unseen mind,

Through silver fur and shadow’s hue,

Myrrha, open the hidden view.

Let dream and waking softly blend,

Where time begins and shadows end,

Through gaze of cat, through breath of night,

Unveil the soul to lunar light.”

[uinverse369]

Eyes like eclipses — burning yet cold,

Guarding the tales that were never told.

In twilight’s hush her silence breathes,

A spell of longing the dark conceives.

Amber and ice in mortal dance,

Her gaze commands — it’s no mere glance.

It strips the veils from mortal lies,

And threads the stars through mortal eyes.

Her face — half fire, half ocean’s gloom,

A rose that blooms in an endless tomb.

Each breath she takes bends space and flame,

The world forgets its given name.

She walks between the dusk and dream,

A ghost of light on shadow’s seam.

Her lips — the mark of fate’s decree,

Soft as sin, yet cold as sea.

Those eyes — they pierce through soul and bone,

As if they’ve seen gods overthrown.

She is the question time won’t define,

The void made flesh, the dark divine.

So linger not in her mystic glow,

For hearts once touched may never know

If they were burned or set free —

By the fire-eyed queen of mystery.

[uinverse369]

Beneath the moon’s enchanted glow,

A whisper stirs where shadows flow,

The witch and beast in silence meet,

Where time dissolves and souls repeat.

Flame flickers gold, the night turns deep,

Dreams awaken, truths don’t sleep,

In mystic trance their worlds align—

Darkness hums, divine design...

In the velvet night beneath a swollen moon, a witch cloaked in shadows communes with a horned spirit bathed in amber flame. The air hums with otherworldly vibration—time melts, and the candle’s fire bends like liquid thought. Her silhouette wavers between realms, wings unfurling from the folds of darkness, while the goat’s eyes glimmer with ancient knowing. Every breath is a spell; every flicker, a pulse of cosmic rhythm—where mind and myth dissolve into one shimmering dream...

[uinverse369]

The image shows a darkly enchanting girl with an almost supernatural presence. Her skin is pale and smooth, contrasted by deep shadows and soft moonlight tones. Her eyes glow with a fierce, golden fire, radiating anger and mystery—like a spirit of vengeance barely contained. Small horns crown her head, blending elegance and danger. Around her neck hangs a dark pendant, hinting at ancient power. She looks both ethereal and wrathful—beauty forged in stormlight and sorrow.

---

“Ember Eyes”

Her gaze—two suns in a storm of night,

Burn through silence, sear through sight.

Beauty carved from shadow’s rage,

A curse of flame in a fragile cage.

The moon bows low to her quiet pain,

Stars retreat, yet still remain.

For in her eyes the worlds ignite—

A fury veiled in haunting light.

[uinverse369]

She was from my vision....

“She Who Watches the Veil”

In the hush between the breath and flame,

She lingers—unnamed, yet known by name.

Eyes like dying stars in storm,

Silent watcher of the soul’s dark form.

Her hood holds night, her lips hold fate,

She waits beyond the threshold gate.

Where mortal sight dissolves in fear,

Her gaze commands what gods won’t hear.

No blood, no bone—just echo and will,

She bends the void, and time stands still.

For every soul that dares to see,

Becomes her mirror—endlessly.

🜏 Symbolic Meaning of “She Who Watches the Veil”

The hooded girl represents the hidden aspect of divine feminine consciousness — the dark, veiled force that sees beyond illusion. In many occult and mystical traditions, she echoes archetypes like:

The Dark Mother (Ereshkigal, Kali, Hecate) — the goddess who rules shadow realms, initiation, and transformation through death and rebirth.

The Silent Oracle — the inner seer that speaks without words, revealing truth only to those who dare to look within.

The Keeper of Thresholds — a guardian between the seen and unseen worlds, guiding the soul from ignorance into awakening.

Her black hood symbolizes the unknowable, the womb of mystery that conceals divine knowledge.

Her red and black eyes merge passion and void—the dual power of creation and destruction, love and dissolution.

She is not evil; she is the watcher of truth in darkness, the one who teaches that enlightenment comes not from fleeing shadow, but from walking through it.

In essence, she is the part of us that awakens when all other lights go out—

the one who whispers, “Know thyself, even in shadow.”

Invocation of the Veiled One

“From shadow I rise, from silence I see.

Veiled Mother of the unseen sea,

Through crimson gaze and whisper deep,

Awaken what the stars still keep.

Guide my sight beyond the form,

Where night and knowing are reborn.

Let fear dissolve, let truth unveil,

I stand within your sacred veil.”

---

This invocation honors the inner shadow as a teacher — not as darkness to fear, but as a mirror for truth and spiritual depth.

[uinverse369]

“The Whisper Beneath the Flame”

In the chamber where silence weaves its thread,

A hooded figure wakes the dead.

Candles flicker—souls reply,

Ash and echo fill the sky.

Runes breathe softly on open tomes,

Each sigil hums of forgotten homes.

The moon half-turns, her silver face,

A mirror to time’s unholy grace.

Bones remember what flesh forgot,

Names unspoken, spells unwrought.

No god, no devil claims this breath—

Only the art of mastering death.

In darkness deeper than mortal dream,

Life and void become one stream.

The figure smiles beneath the veil—

A soul returned, pale and frail.

The flame burns low, the night is fed,

For what’s called dead is never dead.

---

[uinverse369]

The image depicts a Babylonian necromancer or āšipu (exorcist/diviner) in a dimly lit stone chamber.

He holds a clay tablet inscribed with cuneiform, while beside him lies a skull, oil lamp, and open ritual text.

Before him, a ghostly figure rises from a smoky vapor, emerging like mist from the ground — a visual metaphor for summoning the etemmu, the spirit of the dead.

---

"Historical Basis of Babylonian Necromancy"

1. The Practice Itself

Necromancy in ancient Mesopotamia was not “evil” in the modern sense.

It was part of the official religious-magical system—performed by priestly specialists trained in the temples of Enlil, Nergal, or Ereshkigal, the gods of death and the underworld.

The Mesopotamians believed every person had a etemmu (ghost or shade) that lived on after death in the underworld (Irkalla).

When neglected, these spirits could become restless, bringing illness or misfortune to the living.

Necromantic rites were performed to consult or pacify these spirits—often ancestors, sometimes wronged or unburied souls.

2. The Ritual Setting

Such rituals were held at night, often near burial grounds or within temple chambers dedicated to the dead.

Oil lamps, as seen in the image, symbolized the light of life and the gateway between realms.

The skull was not just symbolic — archaeologists have found skulls used in Mesopotamian ancestor veneration, sometimes kept in household shrines.

The incantation tablets used were inscribed in Akkadian cuneiform, containing formulas from collections such as Šurpu (a purification series) or Maqlû (anti-witchcraft and ghost-banishing spells...

This artwork vividly captures the intersection of religion, science, and spirituality in ancient Mesopotamia —

a time when calling upon the dead was not rebellion, but reverence.

The necromancer here is not evil; he is a mediator between worlds, ensuring cosmic balance in a universe alive with spirits.

[uinverse369]

Dance of the Infernal Lovers”

In twilight’s breath, where shadows gleam,

Two hearts ignite — a cursed dream.

The demon’s claws, the maiden’s sigh,

Collide beneath a blood-red sky.

Her silken soul, his burning flame,

Entwined in lust, yet love they name.

Wings unfurled — both dark, divine,

A pact of sin, yet stars align.

His gaze, a storm, her touch, release,

Their chaos births forbidden peace.

No heaven dares, no hell denies,

The fire that burns in lovers’ eyes.

Bound by fate’s eternal art,

The beast and beauty share one heart.

In crimson glow their vows are spun —

Two shadows merge… and become one.

[uinverse369]

This is the first part of the poem,am working on other two remaining parts...wish everyone will love this.....

The Tree of Returning”

Beneath the breath of a moon swollen gold,

stood a child wrapped in shadow’s fold.

Before them, a tree — ancient, bone-bare —

its roots whispered secrets to the cold air.

Crows circled like scattered memories lost,

their cries the echoes of a forgotten cost.

Each branch reached out — a finger of fate,

clawing the heavens, guarding the gate.

The moon wept light upon the scene,

turning sorrow into something serene.

And there the child remained, silent, still —

the keeper of night, bound to the hill.

Some say the tree remembers all souls that fall,

its roots deep in dreams, its crown over all.

And when the crows cry through the gloom,

it’s the tree that sings — of life, of doom.

#poemoftheday #poem #positivevibes #art #artworld #artcollector #poet #writing

[uinverse369]

You are not in the world; the world is unfolding within you

-UInVerse

[uinverse369]

The deeper you look, the less there is to see — and the more there is to be

-UInVerse