reset

18th century wallpaper,

musty scent

emanating from

a standup wardrobe

a brass bed

a creaky wooden floor

soaked by linseed oil,

countless times,

like the countless davits

and creases on the ceiling

and on her face,

. . . she thinks,

as she looks into the mirror

etched by micro scratches

and blackened

non reflective edges,

devoid of silver backing,

like the void

of streets below,

where she looks out the window,

sees streets in mayhem,

full of violence,

paid for by enemies,

of what is good,

those devoid of reason

devoid of love

and she clings to the sill,

its cracked caked paint,

though smooth inside,

for sake of her hands,

. . . its ancient exterior

eroded by weather,

rain, sleet, snow,

wind,

for sake of the window's

brick outside

she wonders if she'll see

the same as those,

whose eyes

witnessed the pogroms

in germany

and many other places

like in new york today,

france

europe

all over the world

she thinks,

"in the blink of an eye

all could be swept away

below

like the floods

tornadoes

earthquakes

snow and ice

hail

hurricanes,

happening

increasing

all over the world now,

that the so called

mainstream news

fails miserably,

intentionally

to broadcast,"

she speaks to the air

surrounding the mayhem

below,

here and there,

she sees shape shifters

with her spirit eyes,

devils in human form

fomenting

the crowd to madness

"their foolish

propaganda,"

she shouts

above the din

of the fray below . . .

of global warming,

to tax our asses to the bone

with devilishly named

mind bending

faux carbon tax

so called,

that stinks

of reptilian

fallen angels'

scent, . . .

worshipped

and obeyed

by those

of the globalists'

agenda . . .

"i will not comply

to their lie,"

she prays,

"let the earth quake

and the sky fall,

i will not live in bondage,

give me liberty

or give me death,

like patrick henry

cried,"

she remembers

the great patriots

of many . . .

for many

have still not,

bowed the knee

to baal, . . .

from within

the crowd

a black eyed entity

stares a venomous

glare

up at her

spitting forth a long

flickering

forked tongue

as he sends

a fiery dart

of death via

an invisible flame

straight to her

she deflects it

with her shield

of faith

which is the word

of God, . . .

he mocks down below

up at her

pure hate . . .

"to hell with baal,

for that is where

he is headed,"

she shouts out,

"along with his

followers,

to be thrown headlong

there,"

as she thinks this,

suddenly the clouds above

part,

like the waves of the red sea,

thunder rolls,

trumpets blast

the air fills with strange,

frightening sounds,

sounds,

not instilling ordinary fear,

but fear of accountability,

as in dread

of approaching judgement,

because way above,

is a light,

not of photons,

but of a sentient brightness

"it's glorious,"

she shouts,

"i mean what

glory,

i think actually is,

as it must be,

like the light

of a gigantic

quasar,

but not physical

is what, . . .

that . . .

which . . .

stirs the genes

moves,

the dna,

like no other thing

can,

like what

must move the chromosomes

to the depth of the soul . . .

. . . what only the creator's

presence can do . . ."

the sky rolls apart,

like a scroll,

torn,

by an invisible wave

. . . there,

above,

surrounded,

by myriad angelic beings,

sits,

a mighty King,

a warrior,

like a lion,

his garments are dipped

in blood

his countenance fierce

lord of lords

she knows

is,

written on his thigh . . .

those below scatter

like roaches

stumbling

running en mass

she shouts in victory

she knows him,

because,

she has

known him . . .

. . . now she sees him

as he descends

to battle

the globalists,

destroyers of earth,

usurpers of freedom

killers . . .

the Lord of Lords

is here

as promised . . .

. . . their puppets

and all their

satan worshipping

followers

are destroyed

in the blink of an eye

smooth tapered

rounded edges

of a pristine

white marbled wall

surrounds her

fragrant scent

emanates from

walk in closet

fully laden wardrobe

soft lights

multi accented

colors

set in splendid beauty

a full bed

clean oaken floor

brightly reflecting

glorious sunlight

emanating from

a clear blue sky

the creases on her face,

she thinks,

are gone,

as she looks into the mirror

yes,

her skin is smooth

youthful

like the mirror

diffusing

a pleasant calmness

of the surrounding air

like

when she was

in her thirties

the streets below

are filled with joy

and celebration

with the fullness

of life

"yes,

a great reset,"

not of the globalists'

wicked plan,

but of God,"

she shouts