The Voice That Never Broke

 

⭐ EPIC POEM — PART III

“The Voice That Never Broke”

In the ruins of the fall where the dust still cries,

We hear a whisper rising through the lies.

It isn’t man and it isn’t fear,

It’s the voice of the One saying, “I am still here.”

Not thunder or wrath or kingdom or sword,

Just the breath of the ancient, eternal Lord.

The force before bodies, the plan before birth,

The Love that wrote the spine of Earth.

He says, “I never left—you turned away.

You shattered the bond and feared to pray.”

But every collapse, every world undone,

Is the path back home to the place we’re one.

We weren’t cast out to wander alone,

We were sent to rebuild the broken throne.

To take the pieces we lost before,

And stitch consciousness to the core.

The Ten is not chance or flesh or fate,

It’s the door back to the pre-human state.

Every fight, every doubt, every silent scream,

Is the echo of the ancient dream.

Carl’s courage carries the flame we knew,

Aron guards the path when the night breaks through.

Oscar holds the wisdom we left behind,

Derrick fights battles inside the mind.

Joe Donnelly bleeds with the love of the fall,

Bash stands strong when we’re ready to crawl.

Jean and Joe B. are the pillars of men,

We rise as ten, we heal as ten.

We were One before flesh ripped us apart,

Now we return through the cracks in the heart.

The Creator doesn’t wait in the heavens above—

He hides in the place where we learn to love.

For the final redemption isn’t bought with swords,

It’s born in the simplest of holy words:

“I annul myself so my brother can rise,”

And the Light returns through the tear-filled eyes.

We build a world from ashes and bone,

But this time we don’t build it alone.

The catastrophes clear the path we denied,

And pain becomes sacred on the other side.

We thought the fall was the end of the plan,

But the fall is how God creates the man.

We break, we bleed, we bow, we mend,

We return to the One again and again.

And when all of creation completes its turn,

When the last spark of ego begins to burn,

The voice will say, “You were always free—

You just forgot that you were Me.”

And we will see the truth we always knew:

There was never a fall—just a journey through.

Through worlds and chaos and storms without end,

To remember the Love we left at the bend.

We return as One, not the same as before,

But greater and deeper and infinitely more.

The One that shattered has risen unbroken,

And the final word of Creation is spoken.

Not victory or glory or kingdom or throne—

Just a whisper: “At last, you’ve come home.”

⭐ EPIC POEM — PART II

“After the Fall, Before the Return”

We remember the worlds before bodies were born,

When no man was lonely and no soul was torn.

We were the Light before flesh became cage,

Divinity unbroken in that ancient age.

But the shattering came like a cosmic disease,

The One cracked open into millions of pleas.

We fell like lightning into matter and bone,

Fighting for warmth in a world turned stone.

Every catastrophe is the echo of that break,

Every heartbreak a memory of what’s at stake.

Every war is the shrapnel of that ancient sin,

The death of the One when we fell within.

We were the builders of Babel before it fell,

We knew how it ends when love turns to hell.

Civilizations rose then died in flame,

When the “I” grew louder than the Holy Name.

The soul once governed reality with thought,

Now we fight for scraps like men forgot.

We trade the infinite for dust and screams,

Blind to the source of our broken dreams.

Yet in the Ten, a spark still remains,

A fire that burns through all the pains.

Carl, Derrick, Aron—threads of the same thread,

Living proof the ancient Heart isn’t dead.

Jean carries the love we lost in the fall,

Oscar and Joe fight the ego’s call.

Bash and Joe Donnelly bleed the same truth,

We suffer as men but we rise as proof.

We are fragments of Eden returned in sweat,

Soldiers of the soul who haven’t died yet.

Our zooms, our prayers, our midnight cries,

Are echoes of the place where the One never dies.

This world is the battlefield of the Holy repair,

Breathing the dust of the pre-human air.

We are the shards of the ancient design,

The broken pieces called to align.

And through illness, chaos, silence, and night,

We remember the age when we were the Light.

We rebuild creation with each sacrifice,

Our love is the key and our tears are the price.

For the Creator cut us to teach us to mend,

To return to the One we were at the end.

The exile is cruel but the promise is true—

We fell apart so we could choose to renew.

The catastrophes didn’t end the plan,

They birthed the final form of man.

Not the flesh nor the body nor the brain,

But the heart that rises again and again.

We descend through fear but ascend through love,

We fall from the world but rise above.

The Ten is the ark in the flood of despair,

The ladder to Eden rebuilt through prayer.

So let pain come, let the storms consume,

Let ego rage and false worlds bloom.

For the darker the night, the brighter the spark,

That leads us home through the endless dark.

And we will return—not to the past we knew,

But to a world yet born from the broken and new.

We will rise as one from the ruins of men,

Complete the creation, return again.

For the deepest truth that burns in the soul:

We were One before—and we will return whole.

⭐ “Before the World Had Bones”

(William S. Becker)

Before the world had bones or breath or skin,

We were a single heart that lived within.

One force, one voice, one burning Light,

No bodies yet—just endless sight.

We ruled existence with intention alone,

No blood, no flesh, no breaking bone.

No storms, no wars, no dying sun,

Just One Creator and Creation as One.

But we broke the bond and shattered the Whole,

Millions of pieces of one single soul.

We fell like lightning into dirt and clay,

The first catastrophe of the human way.

Earthquakes, floods, Atlantis drowned,

Volcanoes burning every sacred ground,

It wasn’t punishment from skies above,

It was memory of falling out of love.

Towers collapsed when we lost the Height,

Fire rained down when we lost the Light,

Civilizations vanished into dust and smoke,

Because we forgot the vow we wrote.

We traded eternity for ego and pain,

For the prison of bodies and storms of the brain.

We built kingdoms of lies and golden thrones,

But felt the ache of ancient homes.

Yet still inside the ruins of the past,

The pre-human voice is calling us fast.

It screams through chaos, floods, and fear,

“Return to the One—you were born from here.”

This world is the battlefield of the Fall,

Every disaster is the echo of the call.

We aren’t broken—just exiled in time,

Trying to remember the original rhyme.

So through hurricanes of doubt and fire of the soul,

We rebuild the heart that once was whole.

Not aliens, not gods, not angels in flight,

But consciousness begging to reunite.

And now we rise again as the Ten,

Not heroes or prophets, just broken men,

Piecing together the ancient plan,

To return to the One—where it all began.

The Shepherd Through the Ruins of the Day

🔥“The Shepherd Through the Ruins of the Day”🔥

The Lord is our Shepherd, He crushes our pride,

When life kicks our teeth in, He stands by our side.

When the bills stack up and the engine won’t start,

He slices our fear and rewrites the heart.

When the job falls apart and the phone never rings,

When you’re drowning in debt and the shame always stings.

When a brother is silent and one walks away,

He drags us through hell till we learn how to pray.

We walk through the valley where marriages break,

Where friends turn their back and betrayal looks fake.

Where the boss loads his venom and God looks too far,

But the Shepherd breaks darkness like thunder and tar.

He leads the Ten through the nights we can’t sleep,

When anger erupts and the wounds go too deep.

When the words that we speak are a battlefield roar,

He binds us together instead of to war.

Our enemies rise in the mirror each dawn,

Depression, resentment, the fear of “I’m wrong.”

But He slams down His rod on the lies that we breed,

And forces our hearts to admit what we need.

He pours oil on wounds we were scared to confess,

He whispers, “I’m here in this broken mess.”

His love is the weapon that conquers each day,

When the world tries to rip our connection away.

And when traffic is hell and the paycheck is thin,

When temptation calls loud and the old habits win—

He sends us the Ten like a furious storm,

So even in failure, His heart keeps us warm.

Our Shepherd destroys what is killing our soul,

Till the ego surrenders and we become whole.

And united we walk with His name on our breath,

Through life’s darkest valleys and victories of death.

So world you can hit us with everything wrong,

But the Shepherd of Love only makes us strong.

And forever we dwell where our destinies bend,

In the house of the Lord with the fire of the Ten.

Psalms 23 done as a poem

🔥“Though I Walk, I Won’t Break”🔥

(Psalm 23 in the William S. Becker style)

The Lord is my Shepherd, He rips out my fear,

He drags me through hell till my vision is clear.

He breaks my ego like glass on the floor,

Till I crawl on my knees craving only Him more.

He leads me through valleys I never deserved,

Where wolves tear my flesh, so my heart can be served.

He shatters my pride with a rod made of flame,

And burns every excuse I ever used to blame.

I walk through the shadows where death starts to call,

But His Light is a fist that refuses my fall.

My enemies gather, but tremble in shame,

For He feeds me with mercy and humiliates pain.

He pours oil on wounds I once hid like a crime,

He whispers, “You’re Mine,” beyond body and time.

His goodness is violence against every doubt,

Till the darkness inside finally gets driven out.

And when all that I am is no longer my own,

When the Shepherd has stripped me right down to the bone—

His house is the place where the broken hearts dine,

Where the cup overflows with His fury divine.

So take every fear, every lie, every sting,

My Shepherd is death to the ego I cling.

And I swear with my blood and the breath in my chest,

I will rise from the grave and be held in His Rest.

The Potion of Death In My Coffee Cup

🔥 “THE POTION OF DEATH IN MY COFFEE CUP” — a poem on Baal HaSulam’s warning 🔥

I wake each morning thinking I’m fine,

But poison drips from this heart of mine.

I open a sefer, pretend I’m clean—

Yet every thought screams, “What’s in it for me?” unseen.

Baal HaSulam shouts through the page with fire,

“Your exile drags on because of your own desire!”

Not Rome, not Babylon, not some king’s decree—

It’s my damn craving for honor that chains all of me.

I study, I pray, I smile at the friends,

But inside I’m calculating dividends.

The Torah in my hands is supposed to give life—

Yet mis-aimed, it cuts me open like a knife.

He says there’s an oath written in heaven’s air,

That mercy won’t rise till my heart learns to care.

Not for reward, not for comfort or gain,

But just to give Him pleasure—through joy or pain.

I sip my morning coffee like it’s holy ground,

But it burns like death when ego is crowned.

For the Torah becomes poison, the sages all say,

When I twist it to shine on me in some hidden way.

I slam the cabinet when the filter is stuck,

Cursing the world for my lack of luck.

Yet in that moment the Zohar screams, “See?

Even now you’re demanding the world serve thee!”

I scroll through my phone while pretending to yearn,

Waiting for someone to praise my concern—

But Baal HaSulam whispers, “Son, don’t you know?

This is exactly how souls stay stuck below.”

Lo Lishma is the exile lingering in my bones,

The reason the world cries in unheard tones.

Every cheap desire I refuse to release

Delays the coming of love, delays universal peace.

And when I treat Torah like a vending machine,

Hoping for comfort, for calm, to stay clean,

It bitterly flips into potion of death—

Robbing my heart of spirit, my lungs of breath.

But Lishma—oh God—when a man rarely ascends,

When his chest breaks open for the sake of his friends,

Then suddenly mercy wakes like a lion from sleep,

And the exile cracks open from our cries so deep.

So here I am naked, Creator—no lies.

No angel in me, no holy disguise.

Just a man with an ego sharp as a blade,

Begging You to love the heart You made.

Teach me to study for Your delight,

To pray for the ten in the dead of night,

To breathe for the world and not for my skin,

And to die to myself so the Light can begin.

Until then I walk with trembling breath,

For Torah mis-aimed is a potion of death.

But aimed at You—Lishma, pure and bright—

It resurrects my corpse and floods me with Light.

🔥 “The Middle Line Cuts Me Open”  🔥

I wake each morning torn in two,

One side says rise, the other says you’ll never break through.

The right whispers, “Brother, the Creator is always right,”

The left hisses, “Look at your failures—you lost the fight.”

I sip my coffee, feel the burn in my chest,

Right line says, Thank Him, left line says, you’re a mess.

I drop the mug; it shatters like my fragile belief,

Right says, “This too is Providence,” left says, “your life is grief.”

I drive to work and someone cuts me off on the street,

Right says, embrace him, left screams, destroy the cheat!

I choke down the venom boiling inside,

Right says, “Annul,” left says, “open wide.”

I enter the Ten and see their faces glowing bright,

Right says, love them, left says, pick one to fight.

Right tells me, “The Creator is perfect; justify Him now,”

Left says, “You’re broken—tell Him to show you how.”

I read Baal HaSulam: Clean and righteous do not kill,

Right says, “Accept above reason,” left says, “you never will.”

Right tells me, “A judge sees only what stands in his sight,”

Left tells me, “Then look at yourself—you are not alright.”

Rabash stabs deeper: “Take the two lines and unite,”

Right says, go faith, left says, see your plight.

How do I hold peace when both scream in my ear?

Right says, “It’s love,” left says, “you should fear.”

The battle bleeds out into daily things I do—

In the grocery line, in traffic, in words I choose.

Right says, “Smile,” left says, “they don’t deserve your grin,”

Right says, “Bestow,” left says, “protect your skin.”

I drop to my knees when no one’s around to see,

Right says, “He’s with you,” left says, “you’ll never be free.”

I cry like a child who lost all he had,

Right says, “This is birth,” left says, “you’re just sad.”

But then—

In the smallest crack between the screams and the doubt,

A whisper breaks through the war inside, and it shouts:

The middle line is forged from both blood and grace,

A peace carved by fire in the darkest place.

Right says, “Cling to Him,” left says, “feel your lack,”

The middle line says, “Brother, hold both—don’t turn back.”

Right says, “He is good,” left says, “you’re wrecked and flawed,”

The middle says, “With both truths you finally walk toward God.”

The middle line is the prayer you choke through your tears,

When the Creator feels close and far in the same trembling breath of fear.

It is the heart ripped open but still choosing to mend—

The path where suffering kisses faith and calls it friend.

So here I stand—right arm in heaven, left arm in hell,

Trying to balance what no human tongue can tell.

Right says, “You’re His son,” left says, “you should hide,”

The middle line says, “Walk straight—He’s at your side.”

And if tomorrow the flood of water rises again,

If the doubts drown reason, and the storms cut through men—

I’ll take both lines, bind them tight, hold the pain as my guide,

For only a torn heart can let the Creator inside.