Saturday, October 18, 2025

The Eight That Bur Between Us

🔥“The Eight That Burn Between Us”🔥
(A poem for the Ten — Keter to Malchut)


We sit in one circle, pretending to pray,
Each heart a battlefield in subtle decay.
Keter above us, too bright to name,
Malchut below, drowning in shame.

Between them eight blades cut through the soul,
Each Sefira demanding its toll.
Hochma blinds — a flash of might,
Revealing how little we know of Light.

Bina awakens and screams, “Don’t take!”
She mothers the storm, she makes us break.
In her womb we bleed our pride,
Till tears replace the walls we hide.

Then Hesed comes — that merciful sun,
He whispers, “Give,” till we all come undone.
But Gevurah strikes — “Don’t fake your grace!”
She tears the mask right off your face.

Tiferet hums, a trembling chord,
Between my brother’s heart and the Lord.
Harmony? No. It’s war in disguise,
Love born from pain, where ego dies.

Netzach pushes — fight, advance!
We fall, we rise, in a holy dance.
Hod bows low — admit defeat,
For only surrender makes the Light complete.

Yesod collects the shrapnel and pain,
Fusing our fragments into one vein.
He channels the mercy, refines the fire,
Till Malchut drinks what Keter desired.


So here we are — Ten souls ablaze,
Lost in the mirror of each other’s gaze.
The eight between us slice and mend,
Each wound a beginning, not an end.

We die to self to be reborn,
In unity’s storm, the veil is torn.
For when these Sefirot burn clean and true,
Keter descends — through me, through you.

The War of Permission

⚔️ The War of Permission

(Inspired by Baal HaSulam, Shamati 142)

I stand between two kingdoms, torn and bare,
One whispers “love,” the other “despair.”
The Creator hides in the fog of gray,
Where nothing’s forbidden, but hearts decay.

No sin to name, no mitzva to praise,
Just choices wrapped in ego’s haze.
My mind screams “mine,” my soul shouts “His,”
And between the breaths — the battlefield is.

I swing my sword of trembling will,
But the foe I face wears my face still.
He smiles when I fall into thought’s abyss,
He kisses my cheek — then bites with bliss.

Some days I’m a saint, some nights a thief,
Some hours faith, some hours grief.
Each neutral act becomes a war,
Each glance, each breath — a holy scar.

When I lose, the loss is near —
A whisper of pride, a drop of fear.
But when I win, the heavens roar,
And holiness claims a patch of more.

The gray turns gold, the fog ignites,
The mundane bows to higher lights.
The “mine” dissolves, the “His” remains,
Through blood and sweat, through holy pains.

So, Creator, keep me in this fight,
Where nothing’s wrong, yet nothing’s right.
Let every doubt and silent tear
Expand Your realm within me here.

For I will battle till I see —
The war was You, disguised as me.