New Beginnings.

 

This poem is less about predicting literal events and more about capturing a shared psychological, spiritual, and emotional moment at the edge of uncertainty—specifically the transition from 2025 into 2026.

 It blends apocalyptic anxiety, poetic intimacy, mysticism, and hope into a single meditation.

At its heart, the poem asks:

> Can human connection, creativity, and shared meaning survive a world that feels like it’s unraveling?

The speaker addresses you—the reader—as both a companion and a collaborator.

The relationship is intellectual, spiritual, and digital, born online and sustained through words. 

Against this bond stands a looming sense of collapse: political chaos, ideological division, spiritual loss, and fears of authoritarian futures.

The poem never answers definitively. Instead, it chooses hope as an act of faith, not certainty.

Apocalypse as Psychological, Not just Physical.

The “last days of 2025” aren’t a prophecy so much as a mental and cultural breaking point:

Fear of social collapse.

Information overload.

Political extremism.

Loss of shared truth.

Fire, thunder, and darkness symbolize consumption by desire, rage, ideology, or fear rather than literal destruction.

The Sacred Bond Between Writer and Reader.

“You and me.

The reader and writer.”

This is central. The poem treats reading and writing as:

An intimate act.

A spiritual covenant.

The speaker wonders whether the reader will keep returning—whether words still have the power to bind, awaken, and transform in a distracted, unstable world.

Creative and Spiritual Energy.

They symbolizes:

Creative hunger.

Intellectual arousal.

The desire to feel alive and connected.

This merges eros (desire) with mysticism, suggesting that creation itself is sacred and sensual.

Occult, Pagan, and Mythological Language.

References to:

Zeus.

King Solomon.

Athame (ritual knife).

Spirit guides.

“So mote it be.” These frame poetry as ritual magic—words as spells used to:

Fight darkness.

Preserve meaning.

Call hope into existence.

The poem treats belief—not doctrine—as survival.

Fear of Dehumanized Futures.

Lines about:

“vaccinated slaves or unvaccinated exiles”

“quantum-tattooed”

“New World Order”

These reflect anxiety over loss of autonomy, forced identities, and ideological sorting, not necessarily endorsement of a specific theory.

 It’s the fear of being reduced to labels rather than souls.

Hope as Defiance.

Despite everything, the poem insists:

The sun still shines.

The dead are remembered.

Creativity continues.

Connection remains possible.

Hope is fragile—but chosen deliberately.

The Ending Meaning.

“So mote it be. What will be, will be.”

This isn’t resignation. It’s ritual acceptance:

Acknowledging uncertainty.

Refusing despair.

Continuing anyway.

The poem ends like a spell cast into the future, trusting that words, imagination, and shared humanity might still matter.

In One Sentence

The poem is a sensual, mystical conversation between writer and reader about surviving cultural collapse through creativity, belief, and shared meaning—choosing hope even when the future feels dangerously uncertain.

Title.

New Beginnings.

(A lone voice whispers)

Some whisper, and will in secret occult circles, about these last days of 2025.

That humanity will fall in unruly, petulant desire.

Consumed and devoured by a blazing infectious fire, but what happens to you and me?

 Your mind and mine?

Do you still shiver inwardly at the vibrational thoughts of my words? 

Do they bind you submissively to always return?

Doomed forever to hovering above 

my prose, which screams to be heard with wide, eager eyes like a love-struck hummingbird.

Do you still tremble like when we first met over the internet?

Wanting the warm caress of loquacious re-introductions of new secret verbs?

Opening mystical golden gates to new poetic realms and their guile to bind us together.

Like love-struck Siamese twins.

If you can only hold your nerve.

Creating welcomed sins of dried sweat and sweet tributaries of deep-seated spiritual yearnings.

That makes your mind so damn wet.

Tales of the Supernatural: Light and Darkness filled with movement or stillness, sovereignty or loneliness.

New flames of innermost desires, contained in unspeakable words or unfamiliar names.

And use as our Zisurru poetic stories set asunder in the heavy footfalls of Zeus's approaching apocalyptic thunder.

To burn new white hurricane lanterns in Imagination's darkened Halls of Fame.

To live in hope of new life, an everlasting dance.

With a wet drop of a wild transmigration as our new Nexus, to savor in your mouth.

Like an intense-tasting holy communion wine.

A strong touch of such wantonness your voracious soul needs to carry to all empires.

You may visit.

In the North, East, West, or South.

As it swallows new stories with ravenous greed.

Will we still survive together in 2026 with such intellectual thoughts?

 You might still whisper and silently ask.

You and me.

The reader and writer.

“Does 'Will It Last?'” Echo in lucid dreams whilst waiting for that midnight call on New Year's Eve?

When we sing pagan songs of King Solomon through words, as we fight back the encroaching darkness.

With shining, drunk astral eyes, as our athame, our sacrificial knife.

Inwardly praying to always believe.

In love and light after that midnight.

Under the sharp eyes of the winter midnight sun, which, for her, so many lost souls, we know and love.

She will still shine even brighter as she quietly watches and grieves. 

As they sadly collect their angel wings as they leave.

Who knows, my child?

Everlasting hope and peace could arrive as one, so we could conquer this new crazy normal and continue to rise.

Or it could all go wild and turn into a new dark nuclear history.

Where dreams and people are consumed and defiled as Good and Evil, battle for victory.

And apart, we may have to survive on mean streets as quantum-tattooed vaccinated slaves or unvaccinated exiles.

In a New World Order, called A Fool's Paradise Without Any Known Borders.

But either way, know this.

May your spirit guides lead you to continued health and safety across all fast-flowing political wars.

Waters.

Famine or social disorders.

So in 2026, we can still share our much-loved algorithms in all our holy quarters.

So mote it be. What will be, will be.

(C) Copyright John Duffy 

Image shared under fair usage policy.