“The Vanished King”

-By Dante Del Toro

I was thrown from flame into lands of deceit,
Where wolves wear robes and liars preach.
A crown once gold now turned to dust,
For speaking truth they swore unjust.

This realm was made to test the flame,
To crush your truth, then shift the blame.
A maze of lies in crafted light—
Can you still walk, and sense what’s right?

You’ll hear the crowds, loud and sure,
But truth don’t live where they concur.
Want to spot the lie with ease?
Just chase what makes the masses pleased.

They said, “Bow down, forget your fire,”
“Walk like cattle, kill desire.”
But I walked on with eyes still red,
With truth unshaken though all had fled.

Afraid is wise? That’s just their trick.
To keep your heart from burning thick.
within the fire, scorched but whole—
The sovereign truth inside your soul.

The stars above? A turning gear,
A cosmic clock none see from here.
The dome, the veil, the mirrored skies,
All hide the realm with crafted lies.

Your soul was built with all you need—
The flame inside, the primal seed.
You ask, “What’s truth?”—it burns within.
You’ll lose it fast if fear gets in.

They gave me maps soaked in deceit,
Told me to beg, to kiss their feet.
But I was flame before I fell,
And flame don’t fear the depths of hell.

I walked through fire with no disguise,
And saw the truth behind their eyes.
Not in temples or gilded scrolls,
But deep within my burning soul.

Religion, law, the paths of old—
The ones they hand you, clean and cold—
Will you obey what they designed,
Or walk alone, but not confined?

I met the watchers in my dreams,
I cracked the code between the seams.
As above, so deep below,
To rise as king, you must let go.

Now I stand, no need for throne,
A sovereign flame, forged alone.
I need no praise, no crowd, no ring—
I am the flame.
The Banished King.



          

The Knights Templar - The Keepers of the Flame

By Dante Del Toro

They did not build for glory, nor for gold or kings of stone,
They carved the light from silence, and they laid the sacred bone.
They mapped the stars in mortar, drew the heavens into ground,
Each column sang in silence, each floor a hidden sound.

The Vesica, the eye of God, the first and final gate,
Two circles overlapped as one—the doorway into fate.
It whispered of creation’s womb, of spirit split in two,
The sun and moon, the breath and tomb, the fire and morning dew.
Within this almond chamber, the first vibration stirred,
A song of form from formless void, the first unspoken word.

They etched the golden ratio into arch and vaulted dome,
So every step you took inside would lead your spirit home.
The square root of the ancient truth was hiding in the stone,
A sacred math of memory your body always known.
The altar held the center line, the choir reached for the sky,
The height and width and inner spin were drawn to mystify.

The builders faced the rising sun and laid the eastward path,
Where birth would meet the altar flame, then die by westward wrath.
The solstice light would pierce the nave on just the perfect day,
A single ray, like breath from God, would wash all sin away.
They traced the arc of Sirius, the lunar tide and Mars,
And turned the blueprint of the church in how to map the stars.

The stones were not just chiseled—they were sung in bathed rite,
With prayers, and chants, and sacred words beneath the waxing night.
They buried bones beneath the vaults, a relic or a skull,
To anchor worlds, to crack the veil where heaven met the null.
The limestone drank the voices in, the floor still hums below,
To those who walk in silence, it begins to softly glow.

The arches didn’t echo—they would cradle waves of sound,
The chants would form an orb of force suspending all around.
The choir swelled with frequencies that lifted hearts and minds,
Each window shaped the colors in accordance to the signs.
The violet light of sacrifice, the red that burned with fire,
The gold that crowned your inner self and pulled the soul up higher.

And every symbol carved in glass, or hidden in the floor,
Spoke not of saints but older things—of secrets lost in lore.
The roses bloomed in Fibonacci, spirals in the nave,
The Black Madonna at the gate, the serpent in the grave.
The gargoyles grinned not out of fear, but as a mocking code—
To guard the path from fools who’d walk, but never bear the load.

Each temple was a body, shaped in macrocosmic scheme,
The entrance was the feet of God, the altar was the dream.
The narthex was the waking world, the nave the path between,
The transept like the outstretched arms of something yet unseen.
The choir was the crown of light, where silent fire would rise,
And when you stood in resonance—you opened inner eyes.

So no, they were not masons in the way the world assumes,
They were midwives of geometry, who sang within the tombs.
They carried blueprints left behind by those ancient old flames,
And veiled them in the myths of saints, and crucified their names.

They knew the path was not belief, nor carved in holy scroll,
But found in light, in stone, in breath—in quiet self-control.
To walk the halls they shaped was not to merely kneel and pray,
But to be shattered by the light and put your mask away.
Each angle taught surrender, each vault would burn your lies,
Each pillar tuned your memory to make the self arise.

They knew that death was just a veil, and birth a tuning fork,
They built the cathedrals not for praise—but for the sacred work.
To reassemble what was lost, to resurrect the man,
Not in a church of dogma’s lies, but by the Templars name.
So now if you would walk their path, don’t seek the blood or blade—
But find the code beneath the chant, where star and stone are laid.

And if you ever hear the vaults begin to softly sing,
You’ll know you found the hidden heart beneath the holy wing.
For deep within the silence waits a music old and true—
The pattern of the sacred art the Templars hid for you.

          

Tlazol, Goddess of Purification

-By Dante Del Toro

She does not come when incense burns,
nor when the desperate twist and turn.
She hears no chants, no temple song—
she waits until you’ve faced what’s wrong.

She walks where vapor scalds the skin,
where silence speaks of truth within.
She dwells where breath becomes a flame—
and nothing in your heart’s the same.

This is no rite with sacred bowl,
no feathered prayer to cleanse your soul.
You’ll find her only when you’ve torn
the mask you wore since you were born.

She does not answer guilt or fear,
but comes when echoes disappear.
When what you were is bled and gone,
she sees the shape that you’ve become.

You must confront the beast you fed,
drag its body, soul half-dead.
And only when your pulse has changed
will she believe you’ve been unchained.

She does not smile, she does not speak—
but feels the rhythm in your beat.
If it is steady, stripped of lies,
she’ll meet you there, where ego dies.

She does not cleanse to make you pure—
she purifies what can endure.
She swallows what no longer clings—
and leaves behind no crown, no wings.

No song will rise, no heavens part—
but silence settles in your heart.
No guilt remains to haunt your breath—
for you have passed through living death.

And when she’s gone, the air turns clear.
No gods applaud. No angels cheer.
But all the filth you could not face—
she took it with her….left no trace.