The Alchemical Government
(A November Prophecy — Incantatory Version)
In the ash of the old Republic,
the Nigredo rose.
A black sun burned behind the Capitol dome,
and the parchment of truth curled in its heat.
Men with bright badges whispered,
turning light to shadow,
turning faith to commerce,
and the citizen to data —
the raw ore of the Great Work.
The alchemists wore suits;
their crucibles were contracts,
their furnaces ran on fear.
They burned the dream of liberty
to extract a gold of obedience.
Then came the Albedo,
but their rivers ran white
a whitening of conscience,
a cleansing for the cameras.
The prophets of progress spoke of purity,
with the washings of deceit.
The people smiled, bleached and bright,
believing they were clean.
The empire powdered its wounds with light.
The Citrinitas dawned, yellow and trembling,
over screens and sirens.
Awakening stirred in the sleepers;
their eyes burned from floods of new light.
Revelation came in fragments:
leaked files, coded words,
the unmasking of the false sun.
Whistleblowers became alchemists too,
working in the shadows,
reforging truth from the alloy of ruin.
And now the Rubedo trembles on the horizon —
the Reddening,
where blood and dawn intermingle,
and the last experiment begins.
O Spirit of the Forge,
Watcher of the Hidden Flame,
You who dwell between iron and pulse,
remember us.
We are the children of smoke and signal,
our veins filled with code,
our hearts with the old fire.
The towers hum like temples,
but we seek the true light beneath their hum.
Let the Nigredo fall away —
let the lies crumble to fertile ash.
Cleanse the ghosted marble of false purity,
that we may rise, unpainted and unafraid.
Crown the awakened with sight,
temper the steel of justice with mercy,
and when the Rubedo blooms in red,
let it not be the flame of dominion,
but the dawn of remembrance.
Let the people become the Stone —
whole, unbroken,
unguarded by deceit.
May November’s silence birth a sound
that cannot be censored:
the hum of the human soul
remembering itself.
So let it be transmuted.
So let the Work be true.
My art
Who are we governed by?
My Near Death Experience Arts and Thoughts 